These Broken Wings
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 1.12. In the aftermath of Alastair's attack, the brothers are broken. Despite best efforts, the boys continue to struggle with their fears and weaknesses. Can they conquer these new wounds in time? Or will they end up as victims after all?
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...a Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 12: These Broken Wings

Authors: Deej and Faye Dartmouth

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Episode Summary: In the aftermath of Alastair's attack, the brothers are broken in mind and spirit. Despite Bobby's best efforts, the boys continue to struggle with their fears and weaknesses. Can they conquer these new wounds in time to save each other? Or will they end up as victims after all?

PART ONE

Bobby Singer prided himself on being a smart man. A quick study, too. From textbook knowledge to so-called street smarts, Bobby had the intelligence to outthink most men (and supernatural entities) and the common sense to know how to do it with an ounce of grace (least when they deserved it, anyhow). He could speak five languages with fluency, two of which were mostly extinct, and he knew enough to pick up the gist in at least four more. He could name ancient demons and recite most pagan customs right down to the bloody sacrifices.

So why he couldn't make his computer _work _was really beyond him.

Scowling, he squinted at the thing, wondering if his old eyes were keeping something from him. It had never been this hard before, and, yes, Bobby had had a computer since they became common place back in the 90s. He'd been a little behind the curve with that one, but once he caught wind of the number of ancient references and texts available on that damned internet, he'd been hard pressed not to give in to the inevitable pull of progress.

And he'd had that same damn machine for the last ten years until the Winchester brothers had to come and screw it all up to _hell_.

Damn kids had tricked him. They'd suggested fried chicken for dinner, made him go get it, and then abducted his old computer while he was gone. They'd even had _coupons _for the whole ordeal, so he knew they'd been planning it. When he got back, there was this sleek little laptop in its place. The old one was just _gone_. Not a trace of it, and Bobby had scoured every inch of his property looking for it.

Dean had been far too amused to do anything but sit back and laugh at him from time to time. Sam wasn't much better, putzing around and showing Bobby how to hook things up and get things going. The kid had offered a step-by-step tutorial, but Bobby had been so pissed off about it all that he'd rejected the offer.

Perhaps that had been a bit hasty. He hadn't figured out how to send an email since the two yahoos left. It probably didn't help that Dean had left six porn sites bookmarked in his favorites list. Who the hell really paid for a subscription to Busty Asian Beauties anyway?

Between Sam's anally retentive ways and Dean's insatiable skin kinks, it was a damn near wonder those two boys ever got _anything _done.

Grousing, he picked up the mouse, trying to see if it was even working. The thing had a little red light that seemed to blink every now and then, which Bobby couldn't figure if that was a good or bad thing. The damn piece of junk didn't even have a _cord_.

Frustrated, he slammed it down, moving it roughly on the desk, trying to get the little arrow to do _something_.

He was just about to chuck the thing at the screen when his phone rang.

Almost grateful for the reprieve, it took Bobby all of a second to realize _which _phone was ringing. Having multiple lines was a bit of a safety thing for him, his way to keep the various contacts and layers of his life separate and adequately protected. The frequency of calls varied from line to line, and he was familiar with each ring tone before even taking a gander to see which one was live.

This wasn't the normal line, the one he used for carry out and actual salvage business. This wasn't even the hunters line, which he gave out as a general reference amongst the hunting community. This wasn't even any of his special contact lines--the FBI, the NSA, local police. He had to change those often these days with the rate the boys tended to burn through his forged contacts.

No, this wasn't any of those. This was the restricted line. He only gave that number out to the blessed few he called _friends_. Rufus had the number. Ellen did, too. So did the boys.

But this was in case of emergencies--exclusively. He gave out the number with the terse warning that they'd better be bleeding or dead if they called it. Bobby had gotten no more than four calls on it in his entire life.

His heart stuttered a moment in his chest, and he swallowed reflexively. His technological woes seemed distant now, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans as he stood. Stiffly, he walked over to the kitchen, bypassing the familiar mess of marked phones. The small black one on the end was dusty and faded, almost vibrating with the ringing.

Willing his hand to steady, Bobby answered it. "Hello?"

There was silence on the other end. Then, breathing. Steady and thick.

Bobby wet his lips, keeping himself calm. With effort, his voice remained even. "Hello?"

The breathing paused again, lingering in stillness for an inhuman moment.

His hackles raised, his senses on full alert. "Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"_Bobby_," the voice on the other end finally replied. It was deep and rough, but almost sickly sweet. Like water rushing over gravel. "_Is that any way to talk to an old friend?_"

It was a voice he knew, one that he'd worked with for years. One that he'd kicked off his property with a shotgun in his hand. "John?"

"_So you do remember_," John replied, almost sounding amused.

From where Bobby was standing, though, this wasn't funny at all. He'd _seen_ John in Wyoming--black eyes and all. Hell, he'd seen his old friend sidle up with the demon that had terrorized his family for a lifetime. The one that had killed his wife. His beloved Mary. The one who had killed his _son_.

And he'd seen that damn surveillance tape. He was still beating himself up about not going with the boys to White Sulfur Springs. Their account left out some of the details of that case and the hunt that had followed it, but John's not so idle threats, and the attempt on Sam's life, had been pretty persuasive. Bobby might recognize the voice, but this was no old friend.

A wave of disgust washed over him, his jaw tightening. "You've got some nerve," Bobby spat. "Whatever you are."

"_You're wasting time,_" John told him, his voice free from malice.

"What are you up to now Still killing night watchmen? Or maybe trying to raise demonic armies? Or are you just screwing with your kids' heads for kicks?"

"_And which answer would you prefer?_"

Bobby's anger flared. "You son of a bitch--"

"_Bobby_," the voice cut him off, stern and to the point. And...something more. A little raw. A little desperate. "_You're wasting _their_ time_."

The inflection was not lost on Bobby. His anger simmered, replaced by a growing dread. "What are you talking about?"

"_My boys,_" John said. He took a deep and steady breath. "_My boys need you._"

The statement was simple enough, but vague as hell. There were a million worst case scenarios spinning through Bobby's head, each one more devastatingly painful than the last. He never should have let them go alone. He never should have let them hunt John without backup. When they couldn't pull the trigger, he would have. He _would have_.

Would haves, could haves, should haves. None of them made a lick of difference. He had to deal with the here and now. "What have you done to them?"

"_It wasn't me--_"

The protest was not what Bobby wanted to hear. "_Liar_," he snarled.

"_You can call me names, or you can help _them_._"

There were no threats. There was no mocking. Which made Bobby think that maybe--just _maybe--_there was something to this.

A trap, perhaps.

The truth, possibly.

Could he afford to be wrong about either?

It was a deep conflict, leaving him stuck between justice and protection. He could be the smart hunter and hang up now, leave John to make the next move in whatever agenda he was pushing. Or he could rush in, play the white knight, and save the boys from whatever trouble had befallen them--whether from John or something else, Bobby wasn't sure, and, in the end, he wasn't sure it mattered.

The chance that the boys were hurt, that they needed help, wasn't something he could risk. They were just too damn important.

The fatherly instinct he refused to admit he had won out. His anger broke entirely and the questions came uncensored. "What's wrong with them? Where are they? Where are you?"

"_Fargo, Georgia,_" John said, and Bobby couldn't tell if he'd imagined the hint of relief in John's voice. "_Just across the state line from Florida. You have to hurry."_

"But where in Fargo?" Bobby asked, pressing for more. "What happened?"

"_Nothing I can't make right,_" John said. "_But I need your help. You have to take care of my boys. Bobby. Please_."

The request was plaintive, emphatic. If this was a con, it was a pretty damn good one.

But Bobby couldn't help it. He just couldn't. He could still remember John's face the first time he showed up on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago, those two damn rug rats in tow. They'd all been younger then, but John's face had been just as tired and grizzled as ever.

If he was honest, Bobby knew he'd been whipped since then. One look from John's deep, sad eyes, one glimpse at those two boys holding onto each other like they were all the other had--and Bobby had never even had a chance.

Resigned, Bobby picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. "I need a location, John," he said, voice tight and even. He had his priorities. The boys came first. Always.

"_Fargo, Georgia_," John repeated. "_The hospital_."

Bobby's panic sprang to life, questions coming to his tongue. But before he could ask anything, before he could utter another word, the line went dead, the dial tone resounding heavily in Bobby's ears.

-o-

Fargo Medical Center was clean and quiet. The walls were a sunny yellow and the open waiting room was vacant except for a young couple talking quietly in the corner.

Three days of driving--no sleep, no eating. Bobby had stopped for coffee and the bathroom, and that'd been it--John's worried, ominous voice pushing him on, going well past his limits.

_Take care of my boys_.

Funny, after all the worst case scenarios he'd imagined, after all the worries he'd entertained, he was almost too damned afraid to find out the truth.

Keeping his focus, Bobby went straight to the admit desk. The young receptionist looked up, a smile on her face by default, but Bobby could see the question in her eyes as she looked at him.

After three days on the road, Bobby figured he wasn't the picture of fresh and clean. But Bobby wasn't a vain man under the best of circumstances, and he sure as hell didn't give a damn what he looked like in times like these.

"I'm here looking for--" His voice cut off abruptly, realizing he had no idea what names to give. The boys weren't stupid. He knew they had fake insurance for times like these, but Bobby wasn't up to date on their aliases. Saying the wrong thing could tip people off, get the boys into more trouble than they already clearly were.

Something dawned in the young woman's eyes, and she nodded. "Oh, Mr. Singer," she said, giving him an earnest nod. "We've been waiting for you."

Bobby had been prepared for a lot of things, a lot of _awful_ things, and that hadn't even remotely been on his radar. He froze, his instincts flaring in uncertain defense, but he forced himself to play it cool. "You have?" he asked, with an air of caution coloring his otherwise easy tone.

She nodded readily. "Oh, yes," she said. "We were told to expect your arrival. We received all the paperwork a few days ago."

"Paperwork?" Bobby asked.

"Yes," she said. "We do appreciate how promptly it was forwarded to us. But the nurse can tell you more about that." She paused, leaning back, looking a nurse who was filing something behind her. "Wendy, this is Bobby Singer--"

The nurse turned, eyes wide. "Oh!" she said. She was a small thing, no more than five foot two. Her hair was long and brown, pulled back into an easy ponytail. Her gaze flitted over Bobby. "He's here?"

"Yes," the receptionist said. "Can you take him to his nephews and get him caught up on their condition? Dr. Cameron said to notify her immediately when he arrived."

The word _nephews _caught Bobby off guard. He'd played uncle Bobby before, but the fact that John had upgraded him to family in this whole mess...? Was certainly something to consider.

Bobby smiled, feeling both sheepish and wary. Not that he didn't appreciate how easy they were making this for him, but Bobby was of the mind that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

Just what kind of strings had John pulled down here anyway? The boys had already told Bobby their father had picked up some rather impressive demonic tricks during his time away, but his old friend's newfound powers of persuasion and control were impressive. Hospitals were always the biggest danger to the itinerant hunter, and somehow John had set this up for the boys to be safe and for Bobby to have total access.

Bobby was waiting for the catch, and he probably would have bolted, but the nurse was walking around the desk, pulling lightly on his arm. "Fortunately the paperwork is already completed, so we don't need to worry about that," she was saying.

Nodding, Bobby pretended like he knew what she was talking about. "How long have they been here?"

"Sam and Dean have been checked in for nearly a week," she said.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did they get here again? The details were, uh, a little sketchy."

She nodded, unsurprised. "They were dropped off outside," she said. She gave a shrug. "Kind of hard to believe, as bad off as they were. Someone took the time to get them here but didn't want to get them inside."

Bobby frowned, keeping step with Wendy. "Then how did all the paperwork get in order so quickly?"

Wendy looked at him, a smile of bemused confusion on her face. "The information came straight from hospital administration. We were supposed to give Sam and Dean Magruder top notch care. Their father apparently has very good connections."

There was the nugget of truth in the mess of lies. Just what connections John had fabricated, Bobby wasn't sure of--for that matter, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He just had to hope that no one had died for this.

And Bobby had to remind himself why he was here. Whatever John had done, he'd done it presumably for the boys.

Swallowing, Bobby focused his thoughts soberly. "How are they?"

Wendy's smile faltered and she looked ahead again. "The doctor will update you on their condition when she arrives."

It was the first evasive answer he'd gotten since his warm reception in Georgia. That wasn't good. Bobby nodded somberly.

Wendy turned them down a corridor and she paused outside a room, looking Bobby squarely in the face. Her youthfulness faded for a moment, and the nurse in her took over. "Now, I'm going to take you inside to see Dean first. He's been upgraded from the intensive care unit just this morning, so he's on the road to improvement, but I must warn you, he's still very ill. Normal visiting hours are limited, but for you we've been told to make an exception, so you may stay as long as you like, but please be mindful of the machines. They're there to help Dean."

Bobby had been in his share of hospitals before, so he had some idea what she was talking about, but it still didn't make it any easier to hear.

"Are you ready?"

Bobby had just driven three days straight to get here, to do just this--but was he ready?

Hell, probably not, but what else was he going to do?

With a sigh, he nodded.

Wendy gave him a small, sympathetic smile. She opened the door, nodding him inside. "Dean's unconscious, but feel free to talk to him. I'll be back in just a minute with the doctor."

Inside, the room was the same sunny yellow, but the blinds were drawn, keeping the room dim. The room was mostly nondescript, with the typical hospital amenities: a pair of chairs, a small table, an unused water pitcher.

And Dean.

He'd seen Dean in the hospital before, after the car accident. It'd been pretty hard then, but with Sam the wreck he had been, Bobby's attentions had been duly divided. This time, it was just him and Dean. Bobby, who was standing on pure adrenaline and caffeine alone and Dean, who looked half dead in the hospital bed.

It was like a sucker punch, only worse. It left him unable to breathe and scrambling to make sense of it all.

Because Dean--

Well, Dean looked _bad_. Dean looked more than bad. He looked--

There weren't any words for it, and it was all Bobby could do to keep himself from throwing up.

The kid was covered in cuts. Every inch of exposed skin seemed to be affected, crisscrossed with scabbing wounds and still healing abrasions. There were several bandages, one on his neck, a pair around his wrists, and a bulky stabilizer strapped to one knee. The gown was settled unevenly over Dean's torso, which clearly covering a myriad of other bandages and injuries.

Dean's face was marred with more angry slashes, both eyes bruised and swollen. There was a row of stitches across his forehead, and a fading cut on his chapped lips.

Dean was hooked up to a number of IVs and monitors, some of which Bobby recognized, but his brain was too overloaded to process at the moment.

No wonder John hadn't told him the details on the phone. No wonder the staff had been so eager to get some family here.

Dean had been tortured.

It was a hard conclusion to accept, but there was no two ways about it. Bobby knew his stuff, and he'd seen enough tortured bodies to know the signs. The cuts enough were a dead giveaway. They were precise and planned, executed over the body again and again--and _again_. Not life threatening in and of themselves, but designed to be painful--damn near overwhelming--enough to break even the most hardened hunter.

Which also explained the bandages around the wrists. Dean would never take that kind of thing lying down--not unless he was forced to. As for the rest of the injuries, Bobby could only speculate, but he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know the truth.

The truth of it was sickening, and Bobby had to swallow hard, standing stiffly to keep himself from falling over.

In all of his days as a hunter--all the awful things he'd seen, the things he'd endured--

This was one of the worst. Maybe _the _worst, at least since...

He didn't let himself finish that thought. He still didn't think about the reasons he got into this, not that thinking about why he was in this damn hospital room was actually any easier.

Why would someone do this? Why didn't John _stop_ it? Not that there weren't creatures and demons out there who would like to see Dean dead, but this?

Bobby's stomach turned when he remembered that Dean was the one who was _better off._ He couldn't even imagine what Sam looked like.

The door opened behind him, and Bobby turned, almost grateful for the distraction. The woman who entered was about his age, with graying blonde hair and smile lines around her eyes.

The smile she gave Bobby, however, was not a happy one. Professional and polite, as perfunctory as the hand she extended. "Mr. Singer," she said. "My name is Dr. Cameron. I'm glad you were able to make it. You had to drive quite a ways to get here."

Bobby gave a small grunt, his weariness making him immune to the common pleasantries. "I hadn't been told how bad the boys were," he said. "I would have come quicker if I'd known."

Her smiled turned a little grim. "I don't suppose you know what happened to them."

That certainly wasn't a good start to this conversation. Bobby's lips flattened. "I was hoping you could tell me."

She sighed, moving past Bobby a little ways and looking at Dean. "We don't know the details. Whoever dropped them off didn't stick around to ask questions, and neither of them have been awake to tell us what happened. The injuries aren't consistent with any typical accident that I'm familiar with." She hesitated, glancing back at Bobby. "If I didn't know any better, I would say this damage was done intentionally."

"Damn right," Bobby said, letting his gaze pass over Dean's prone form again. It didn't get any easier to see, no matter how often he saw it "And you got no leads as to who did this to them?"

She gave a small shrug. "I've reported it to the police and they've done some investigation, but we can't find any traces of anything to go off of. We don't even know what they were doing in town."

Bobby had some ideas about what they were doing in town, and those weren't answers he was ready to give.

And all of that was beside the point. All the doctor was telling him was what she _didn't _know. Bobby didn't drive all the way from South Dakota to hear about the lingering mysteries. He came to find out what was wrong with Sam and Dean. Plain and simple. As far as he was concerned, they'd figure the rest out later. "So you don't know who brought them in and you don't know what happened to them. What exactly is it that you can tell me?"

The edge in his voice was not lost on the doctor.

"Well, I can tell you that Dean is in serious but stable condition. Most of the injuries that are visible are superficial--painful but not life threatening. However, whoever was wielding the knife did make a few deeper incisions that we had to stitch, including one that perforated the abdominal wall. Fortunately, it was a small perforation, which is the only reason he survived long enough to get to the hospital at all."

Bobby's eyes went back to Dean, jaw clenched as he took it in. Demanding answers was pretty easy; hearing them was another task entirely, one that he was pretty sure he was almost too old to handle.

"While the punctures were cause for concern, the real danger came from the blunt force trauma. I can't say how it happened, but Dean has sustained some severe to moderate internal injuries, the least of which is a moderate concussion."

"The most of which being what?" Bobby prompted.

Dr. Cameron sighed a little, looking at Bobby tiredly. "Mostly bruising and small bleeds that corrected themselves a few days after being put on anti-coagulants. But his spleen sustained a substantial bleed that required surgery. We did save it, but the strain on his system was substantial. We also had to operate on his knee to reverse some ligament damage that was done--nothing life threatening, but it could prove debilitating if not properly cared for. We kept him intubated under sedation for several days before we felt like his body would be able to handle waking up."

Bobby's ears perked up at that. "He's waking up?"

She nodded, turning her eyes toward Dean again. "His level of consciousness has been steadily rising since sometime yesterday. We were able to remove his breathing tube just this morning and his vitals have managed to hold steady."

If that was the case, Bobby was loathe to think about how Dean had looked before.

"All in all, Dean is headed in the right direction," Dr. Cameron said.

Bobby blinked, trying to convince himself that all of this was still real. After that long list, after seeing Dean, he needed to hear it for sure. Maybe that way he'd believe it. "He's going to be okay?"

The doctor's expression became guarded. "He's headed in the right direction," she clarified. "Please, understand, Mr. Singer, your nephew is very ill right now. The blood loss alone has been difficult for us to compensate for, and with the numerous open wounds and the surgery, he is battling off a low grade infection. He is showing marked signs of improvement, but his recovery will still be long and complicated. His knee alone will require extensive physical therapy to get back on track. It's been a long road so far, and I'm very pleased with Dean's progress, but his journey is nowhere near over yet."

Bobby tended to give doctors their due. He knew enough about first aid to know that he didn't know nearly enough to make a difference when it mattered. Those who knew how to fix and mend the body had a truly precious gift and talent, and he didn't doubt that this one knew what she was talking about.

But when Bobby _looked _at Dean, it was none of that even remotely mattered.

Because Dean didn't just look hurt, and he certainly didn't look like he was headed in the right direction. Dean's color was inhumanly pale, with dark circles smudged under his eyes. The lifeless body looked _broken_, a mere ghost of the man Bobby had grown to care about.

Dean didn't look like he was headed in the right direction, no matter how much Bobby wanted to believe it. In his line of work, seeing was believing, and right then, Bobby didn't know _what_ to believe.

He just knew what he saw.

Dean Winchester, not just brought to his knees, but to the very brink of death. And why? Was the culprit still out there? Was John responsible? What had _happened_?

"Mr. Singer," the doctor said, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm sure this is very hard for you, and you're welcome to spend as much time here as you need before we go see Sam."

Bobby's attention caught on that, his head jerking from Dean to the doctor. "I can see Sam?"

This time, the doctor couldn't even manage a smile. "Perhaps it would be best--"

Bobby shook his head. "I need to see him."

There was a hint of protest on Dr. Cameron's face, but she collected a breath and blew it out. She nodded, resigned. "Very well," she said. "Follow me."

With one last glance at Dean, Bobby followed her into the hall.

-o-

The reality of the situation was pretty clear to him, especially in the hall. It was hard to miss the wide eyed looks he got or the sorrowful smiles. Not that it surprised him--those boys were charmers by nature--and apparently they didn't even need to be awake to captivate the opposite sex with their wiles.

Or perhaps two tortured young men who were dropped off anonymously at a small hospital in the middle of nowhere was enough to pull at anyone's heartstrings. It was a pretty sad story, when Bobby thought about it like that.

It was kind of terrifying when he thought about it from his perspective.

It had to be something damn clever to catch the boys off their guard--and not just one, but _ both _of them. Of course, he couldn't say for sure if Sam was tortured in the same way. Maybe Sam had been injured in the rescue attempt.

Dr. Cameron moved at a quick pace, purposefully ignoring the curious glances from the rest of the staff. Bobby had to think she was out of her league with this kind of trauma, but she did a good job of hiding it.

"Now, when we see Sam, you're going to see much of the same kind of injuries," she told him.

Bobby had to frown. So much for his botched rescue theory.

"Sam's injuries, however, proved to be more complicated. We've had a much harder time stabilizing him, even after surgery. His vitals just aren't staying in a place where we're happy, and the infection is stronger in his case. He's been warding off a small case of pneumonia for the last day or so, and we've had to keep him intubated and in the the intensive care unit as a precaution."

It was medical posturing of the most obtuse kind. She was preparing him for the worst, as if he hadn't already seen it with Dean.

A ghost would never get this kind of leg up on them--it just wasn't possible. A wraith would be tricky enough, but they didn't go for the blood as much as they did the brains. Most straight up monsters lacked the precision for this kind of thing, and vampires and werewolves would never have this much restraint--the boys would have been dead long before reaching this state.

Which meant--

Hell, Bobby knew what it meant. He'd guessed what it meant the moment he'd heard from John. His old friend wasn't exactly keeping the best of company these days and those black eyes made it pretty clear where John's allegiances were.

Demons.

Some demon had gotten the boys, which was why John had been able to find them and why he'd said he'd take care of it.

The doctor pulled to a sudden stop in front of him, and Bobby had to scramble to keep from bowling over her.

Dr. Cameron was looking at the floor, taking deep breaths. When she looked at Bobby again, her smile was more guarded than apologetic. "Are you sure you're up for this? Perhaps you'd like some time with Dean first?"

Bobby couldn't contain his annoyance. "I need to see him."

She nodded, clearly expecting that answer. She pushed the door open, holding it behind her for Bobby to clear it. "We have Sam listed under critical condition, though he has shown some signs of stabilizing in the last hour or so, which is something to remember."

Bobby nodded but his mind completely forgot why the moment he saw Sam.

Dean had been bad--there was no way of softening that--but Sam--

Sam just looked _dead_.

The collection of cuts was very similar, but Sam's seemed to be healing slower. Where Dean had been pale, Sam was simply colorless. Dean had been still, but Sam was utterly lifeless. The long, limp limbs were arranged carefully by his sides, skewed only by the brace on Sam's shoulder.

Sam's hair fell away from his face, revealing the same bruises and cuts as Dean had, only Sam's row of stitches was tucked tightly against his hairline. His normally tan features looked sallow and sunken, and the kid's complexion looked worse with the growth of stubble on his boyish face.

The tube was the major difference. Snaking up from Sam's mouth, the tube was taped down hastily. The noise of its steady hiss filled the room, obscuring the fact that Sam was alive at all.

"As you can see," Dr. Cameron was saying, "Sam suffered a similar array of cuts and bruises, though one slice did nick a lung, which we repaired with the use of a chest tube. The internal injuries were more pervasive in Sam, and we had to do more work to control the bleeds. We tied off several in his stomach but couldn't correct one in his liver. Fortunately, we only had to remove a small portion."

Bobby almost balked at that. _Fortunately_.

The doctor continued. "He suffered a mild concussion as well, along with the same peculiar burn to the foot. One major difference that we've had to keep an eye on was the serious blow he endured to his neck. We were almost unable to get a tube down his throat at all when he first got here, but the swelling does seem to be receding. We'll have to see if there was damage done to his vocal cords once he's properly extubated and awake."

This time, Bobby almost laughed. "Is there something positive to cling to in all of that, doc?"

Her brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Bobby shook his head, his eyes not leaving Sam. "You just told me all the reasons why this kid should be dead. How the hell is he even still alive?"

Her mask of professionalism faltered for a moment, and she shook her head right back at him. "Honestly, Mr. Singer, I don't know. The blood loss alone should have killed him. How either Sam or Dean managed to survive a trip to the hospital is beyond me. Their injuries--they're the worst I've _ever _seen. These two--they must have some kind of angel looking out for them to bring them this far."

Bobby's jaw worked, his eyes narrowing. The boys had an angel, for all the good he'd been. No, the boys' saving grace hadn't been heavenly sent--

It'd been straight from Hell itself.

Bobby couldn't be sure what John was capable of--he wasn't even sure exactly _what _John was--but the doctor was right. There was no way Sam and Dean should have been alive; Bobby didn't have to be a doctor to know that.

So why hadn't John saved them sooner? Why had John just _left _them here? Why had John called Bobby here to watch them _suffer_? To watch them _die_?

It was almost too much. Just too damn much. This wasn't in Bobby's job description. This was above and beyond the call of duty. Part of him--a large part--wanted to bolt. Wanted to drive all the way back to South Dakota and forget he'd ever met someone named _Winchester_.

But how could he? How could he leave them like _this_? Hurting. Vulnerable.

Bobby couldn't even be sure if whatever did this was still after them or not.

He had to stay. He didn't have a choice.

But he wouldn't do it for John. Whether or not he had saved the boys, John still hadn't earned his trust.

He would do it for the Sam and Dean.

After everything they'd been through--everything they'd _survived_--Bobby had to do this for them. He had to give them another shot.

"Would you like a moment?" Dr. Cameron asked.

Bobby nodded woodenly.

She hesitated a moment. "Just page a nurse if you need anything."

Bobby didn't even look at her as the door closed quietly behind her.

He just looked at Sam.

Looked at that _boy_.

He thought about seeing him dead, thought about seeing Dean grieve, thought about the hole that had been ripped in him seeing them like that.

He couldn't feel that way again.

With a gruff sigh, he sniffled, willing himself to keep the tears at bay. "Well," he said to Sam. "Looks like we've got quite a wait here, don't we?"

Sam didn't respond--hell, Sam didn't even remotely flicker--but Bobby nodded in reply anyway, settling into the chair next to the bed.

"Your brother's on the mend, you know," he said. "So you'd better hurry up and get your act together before he beats you out of this joint, you hear?"

A friendly, optimistic threat. As shoddy and fake as a Hollywood vampire.

But John had called him, and this was all Bobby had to offer.

Eyes lingering on Sam, remembering Dean, he could only hope it was enough

-o-

Two days.

Stuck in a hospital bed, surrounded by pale yellow walls, listening to Bobby yap by his bedside. The two worst days of his life.

And that was including the torture. At least with Alastair's altar he'd had death to look forward to. This was just unending, pervasive _nothingness_. There was nothing to do but to sit there and feel the weakness of his body, remembering how much he'd _failed_.

Blinking weary eyes, he looked at the pale yellow walls and tried to accept that this hell wasn't going anywhere. Alastair's games had been varied and unexpected. This was torture by monotony. Where the world stood still so long that Dean could only know of his own existence by the painful passing of each breath in and out of his battered body.

He let his gaze fall on Bobby, who was leaned back in the chair, looking at the TV. There was a basketball game on, something in college. Dean didn't recognize the teams. "Can you believe that shot?" Bobby asked. "He was a mile off."

Dean's eyes meandered to the screen before looking off at the wall again. Bobby's persistent attempts to strike up a conversation were annoying, but it was better than having the damned doctor around.

The lady had poked and prodded for what seemed like _hours_, and Dean had just had to sit there and _endure _it. As if he hadn't been through enough torture lately.

But, hey, he was housebroken now. He answered all her damned questions, performed all her stupid requests, and nodded readily at the offer of more pain medication. Anything to be left the hell alone. Even the pretty little nurse who smiled at him when she injected the stuff into his IV could get lost. After all, what was the point of that? What was the point of _anything?_

He'd spent most of his life avoiding that question, hiding from it with a well crafted bravado and a damn near impenetrable facade. Happy-go-lucky Dean Winchester. Never say die. _If we stick together, we can do anything_.

Lies. Maybe he'd always known they were lies, on some level anyway, but part of him believed them. Part of him had always had to believe them. For his sake. For Sam's. For his _family_.

But all of those _lies_. All of his efforts to keep them together, to keep them safe--what good did it really do him in the end?

After all, there he was in a plain hospital room with nothing but the pitying glances and awkward small talk.

Bobby squawked again. "That wasn't no foul," he said, turning to Dean. "Did you see that?"

Dean didn't. He didn't even bother responding, but just looked away.

Foul or fair, winners or losers, banking it off the backboard or sinking the three--none of it mattered to Dean. He couldn't even see why they mattered to anyone. All he could see was his own failure. His own pathetic, miserable failure.

Alastair's methods were painfully clear, and the conclusion was sickeningly true: none of it would do him any good. He was a _failure_. He always had been, he always would be, and his snark and his charm and his lies wouldn't get him _anywhere_.

He'd lost his mother. He'd lost his father. He'd lost his brother. Hell, the only reason he had Sam back at all was because of Azazel's master plan. Without that, Sam would still be _gone_, nothing more than ashes, and Dean would be left with nothing but an annoying angel yapping in his ear whenever it was divinely convenient.

He could still lose his brother now.

Bobby didn't say that out loud, but his expression said enough. Part of Dean wanted to ask, but he remembered lying there helpless as Sam had been tortured, as he'd been ripped open and flayed, and Dean hadn't been able to do anything. Stone altars or hospital beds, Dean Winchester was still one poor excuse for a big brother.

He let his eyes rest on Bobby again. The older man had been there for the better part of two days, just _sitting there_. Dean didn't even know _how_ Bobby had gotten here. Dean certainly hadn't asked for him, and since Sam was still apparently unconscious, his kid brother hadn't called him up either. They didn't carry real contact information on them, so Bobby's presence was entirely a mystery--and a damn frustrating one that wouldn't leave him alone at that.

But, then again, there was a lot about what had happened that wasn't clear to Dean. He certainly wasn't going to forget Alastair any time soon, or the information he'd wrenched from him. But the lingering question--the one Dean still resented--was how he was alive at all.

He'd remembered Alastair's mercy; he'd wanted it. And he hadn't resisted.

Things were fuzzy after that, but he'd been so sure. He'd been so close.

"Dean," Bobby interrupted. The game was off, and the older hunter was looking at him carefully. "Are you listening to me?"

Dean's mind zoned away from the wistful snippet of memory. "Did someone win the game?" he asked tersely.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Half time."

Dean made a small sound of acknowledgment.

"We can turn it back on," Bobby offered.

Dean shrugged, letting his head roll back on his pillow, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Dean?" Bobby asked again.

Dean ignored him. He had nothing to say, and even less that Bobby would want to hear.

Bobby's face puckered. "I know it's hard right now, but it's going to get better," he said. "The doctor is real impressed with your progress."

Dean lifted his head wearily, letting his eyes drift to the wall, following a crack in the plaster around the window.

"Said we'd probably get to go see Sam sometime," Bobby continued. "He's showing some signs of improvement, and the doctor thinks you're up to a small trip."

Dean just shrugged again.

Bobby's brow furrowed, a frown tugging at his lips. "Doesn't that sound good?"

Dean just shook his head a little. "Whatever."

Bobby stared at him, mouth hanging open for a moment. "Whatever?"

Dean wasn't sure what the other man expected from him.

"He's your _brother_," Bobby reiterated, as if Dean could ever forget. "Don't you want to see him?"

Dean's melancholy broke toward bitterness. He laughed humorlessly; Bobby didn't get it. "What difference would it make?"

Over the last few days, Bobby had kept himself remarkably composed. Dean had seen the effort the older man made to keep an even keel, to be friendly and upbeat even when it went against his nature. But the carefully donned facade cracked, Bobby's face twisting into a tired display of frustration and surprise. "What difference would it make? He's your _brother_. He _needs _you. That boy is still fighting for his life, and no one has ever been able to talk him into anything better than you have. You can help him turn around, Dean. I know you can."

Dean shook his head. "I can't do anything," he said flatly. "I've got nothing Sam needs. Nothing that will make a difference. It's out of my hands."

It came out harsher than Dean intended. He didn't want to hurt Bobby's feelings, and he certainly didn't want Sam to die. The fact that his brother was suffering--was hurt and alone--was almost more numbing than his injuries.

But the fact was that it didn't make a difference what Dean did. He had taken up the mantle of being his brother's protector when he was no more than four years old and it had taken his entire life to realize that he had never been up to that challenge. He should have known when Sam figured out the truth when he was eight. He should have put it together when Sam left, alone and dejected, for Stanford when he was eighteen. He should have known when he'd watch Sam get murdered no more than ten feet in front of him.

Dean couldn't save Sam. He had one job, and he had screwed it up. It wasn't his any more.

Bobby's mouth closed, his expression almost pained. "I know that demon tortured you, son," Bobby started.

Dean flinched. They hadn't talked about what happened. Bobby hadn't asked any questions and Dean hadn't provided any answers.

"And whatever happened to you there, it isn't on your head," Bobby continued. "But it's over now. It's over and Sam _needs_ you.

They were the right buttons to push, and everything in Dean ached to live up to them. To try.

But he couldn't.

Stony face, he stared at the wall, willing himself not to blink.

Bobby sighed. "Fine," he said, standing from his seat. "But I'm going to go see your brother."

Dean remained stiff, listening as Bobby's feet thumped heavily across the floor. It wasn't until the door closed that Dean curled up on his side, buried his face in his pillow and cried.

-o-

It had already been a week.

Dean had been awake for the better part of five days now, though Bobby hardly counted it as an improvement overall. The older boy was surly and withdrawn, and Bobby was at his wits end trying to deal with him.

Sam had finally turned a corner, as well. The youngest Winchester had been extubated and moved from the ICU two days ago. With a reduced level of sedation, the boy had slowly been coming to, but it hadn't been until last night that the kid was fully aware of his surroundings.

After worrying all week whether Sam would survive at all, seeing the boy blink dazedly up at him had been about the best damn thing ever. It wasn't much, but Bobby needed his small victories. Or he'd be just as bad off as the pair of them.

Though, moving on from those victories was going to prove more of a challenge.

With both the boys out of imminent physical danger, Bobby had tried to get more of the story out of them. The story, however, was splotchy at best. Dean had been frank about how they'd been caught--he told Bobby about the duppy, and how they'd thought everything was clear when the demon had snuck up on them.

Dean's rendition mostly ended there. He simply told Bobby that his name had been Alastair and he'd been a mean son of a bitch.

Bobby hadn't really had the heart to ask questions.

Fortunately, Sam was more forthcoming. He'd filled in the blanks about Alastair's motives, about his connection to John. And he'd explained the torture, in rough terms anyway. He'd concluded his version with the psychedelic dream trip and then simply said he didn't remember anything after that.

Neither boy had any memory of John being there, though their black eyed father had clearly been a topic of conversation.

They deserved to know, Bobby figured, that John had been the one to call him in--that John had _saved_ them--but as he watched them struggle with their slow recovery, he just wasn't sure how they'd take it. If he had thought it'd bring them any solace, it would be the first thing out of his mouth. But the boys were different now--quiet and withdrawn--and Bobby was unsure if mentioning anything more about their experience would really be a good idea.

Dean was sour--bitter and closed off. He didn't object to things he was supposed to do, he just didn't do them. He responded to simple questions with monosyllabic answers and merely cursed when the answers were more than he wanted to give.

Sam was a blank slate. The younger Winchester obeyed orders, did whatever he was told with as much energy as he could muster. He was wide eyed and compliant, but hardly the bright-eyed, eager boy Bobby remembered. In so many ways, it was almost harder to watch Sam than Dean.

More than that, the kid still looked horrifically bad, his complexion still pallid and drawn. He moved with halted motions, as if even the meager act of breathing hurt him. And that had been _before_ the physical therapy had started.

Dean had been at his for days, and had reduced his first physical trainer to tears until they reassigned him to someone new. Bobby had purposefully been there when Sam got back from his first session, just to be sure that making therapists feel miserable wasn't going to be a Winchester family trait.

Sam's therapist wasn't crying, but the young man didn't look overly encouraged either as he helped maneuver Sam back onto the bed.

Sam's face was pinched, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

"You need to make sure you're communicating with me about your limits," the young man was saying. "We're still feeling out what your body is capable of, and to do that, I need to know how you're feeling."

Sam smiled wanly. "It wasn't so bad," he rasped, both from exhaustion and his still healing throat.

The physical therapist rolled his eyes. "You passed out on me," he said plainly.

Bobby sat up straight. "He what?"

The PT looked at Bobby apologetically. "We were doing a test of motion, trying to see how far Sam's shoulder was capable of moving. He was supposed to tell me to stop. With the amount of damage done to it, it's hard for me to guess where the limits are. When he collapsed from the pain, I got a pretty good idea."

Sam had the decency to look sheepish as Bobby turned a glare his way.

Sam's half hearted grin took the anger right out of Bobby. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just didn't realize how bad it hurt, I guess."

The young man didn't look totally convinced. "We'll try to take it easier tomorrow, alright?"

Sam offered him a meek smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you."

The physical therapist nodded. "Get some rest, Sam," he said as he headed out the door. He paused, glancing regretfully at Bobby, before ducking his head and leaving altogether.

Everyone knew it just as well as Bobby did: these boys were healing physically as best as one could expect, but emotionally--well, emotionally they just weren't even close.

Clearing his throat, Bobby turned his attention back to Sam. The boy was no longer panting, but was sitting guardedly on the bed, his eyes darting uncertainly around the room. Without being able to shower fully, Sam's appearance was unusually disheveled, leaving the brown hair stringy on his head and bangs falling wildly into his eyes.

"So, kind of a rough first day back among the living," Bobby said finally.

Sam's eyes flickered up toward Bobby's, just for a moment. Then, he looked at his hands. He nodded readily. "I'll get better," he said, almost as though he were making a promise.

Bobby winced a little. "You're doing just fine, son," he said. "You just woke up not that long ago. No one expects you to get it all right in a day."

Sam's head bobbed a little, but he didn't look up. "When will they let me see Dean?" he asked, his voice small.

That was a good sign--the first reassuring thing he'd heard the entire week he'd been here. "Soon, I'd guess. I'll talk to the doc and tell her you're interested. She'll be glad to hear that." He paused, shaking his head a bit. "If only that damn hard headed brother of yours could show the same initiative."

Sam's head jerked up, eyes huge. He shook his head. "No, I didn't mean--Dean's fine. He doesn't have to see me. I just thought--I mean. Never mind." He looked down, jaw tight. "Just never mind."

The comment had been off the cuff, and Bobby was taken aback by Sam's strong reaction. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Sam seemed to tremble, glancing at Bobby furtively from behind his bangs. "I don't know what I'm talking about." He swallowed, wincing as he did. "Dean, I mean. I shouldn't have--you don't understand. He--what happened--Alastair tortured him. I shouldn't have--" Sam's voice choked off, his shoulders now trembling visibly.

It was damn near impossible to watch Sam backtracking like that. Apologizing, trying to rectify some wrong that hadn't been committed. It had been Bobby's comment, not Sam's, and yet there the kid was, beating himself up over it.

Though, Bobby really should have seen it coming. Skittish as Sam was these days, the boy almost bent over backwards to appease anything and everyone. Any negative comment would send the boy into as much of a frenzy as his still healing body could muster.

Worse, the boy was still working himself up.

"Sam, relax," Bobby said, trying to keep his voice gentle. "It's not a big deal. You've both been through a lot."

Sam's breathing hitched, and he looked up at Bobby, a tear streaking down his face. "You didn't see it, Bobby. What Alastair did to Dean. The cuts. The shock. _Everything_--"

It was a facet of the torture Bobby hadn't let himself consider. Not just what each boy endured for themselves, but what they were forced to witness on one another.

Bobby wet his lips a little, trying to smile, keep his voice even. "I know," he said gently. "It's okay. We don't need to think about it any more right now. Maybe we should just get some rest."

Sam nodded a little, though his face was still miserable. Bobby saw another tear sneak out from his eye before he turned his gaze down again.

The doctor had said Sam would likely be emotionally off balance. Bobby just hadn't realized how far off balance that would be. Angry and obedient was one thing--crying was entirely another. Bobby felt like he'd just kicked a puppy, and he suddenly wished he'd stuck it out with Dean's cruel invectives.

This wasn't working. Not that Bobby wasn't grateful for the hospital, but this wasn't everything the boys needed. He could see it plainly now, how naive it was to think that their time here could fix things. That they could mend and go on their way like nothing happened.

_Take care of my boys_.

He knew now what John meant. He knew it in Dean's defensive indifference. He knew it in Sam's terrified acquiescence. Bobby couldn't do much, but he could do the one thing that mattered.

Watching Sam's down turned face, remembering Dean's distant stare, Bobby knew what he had to do. It wouldn't be easy, but in the end, it was the only thing he could do that would make any difference. He had to take the boys home.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Sam still hurt.

He was smart enough to know that while some of it was real, some of it just wasn't. Psychosomatic symptoms, phantom sensations--they were only as real as people let them be.

Sam might have believed once that he was stronger than that. He wouldn't have let himself fall victim to such weak mind tricks. Mind over matter--a maker of his own destiny. Too much a Winchester to let that kind of thing have any hold over him.

He might have believed it once, but he'd been very, very wrong.

Even the simple act of sitting down made his entire body ache these days. It had been over a week since Bobby had sprung them from the hospital, over a month since he'd woken up in the hospital, and it still wasn't going away. It might never go away.

In some ways, that was okay with Sam. The pain was a reminder. A constant, unyielding reminder about how wrong he'd been. About _everything_.

He'd been wrong to ask questions. He'd been wrong to want something more for himself. He'd been wrong to walk away from his family. He'd been wrong not to tell Jessica the truth.

He'd been wrong not to kill his father. He'd been wrong to trust Jake. He'd been wrong.

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

And he could feel it, his total failure, through every healing cut and lingering bruise on his sore body.

Alastair's cruelty was more than knives and shocks. It was stark honesty, which could eviscerate him with far more depth and pain. The horrors of being shackled were fading memories now, along with the scars on his skin. But what Alastair had _showed _him, what he had made Sam _learn_, was burned into his mind with vivid clarity.

In truth, he'd preferred dwelling on the physical injuries, which, part of him knew was why he still clung to that pain. He felt fragile in so many ways and so he guarded the only things he could. There was nothing he could do to shield himself for his mistakes and failures.

Most of his wounds were healed. There was only a lingering trace of the cuts Alastair had inflicted, though the deep gash along his side was still raised and purple. He'd given up the sling for his shoulder when Bobby had asked him if he still needed it. Even with the sling gone, Sam unconsciously kept his arm close to him, and it was still hard to force that arm into its full range of motion, no matter how often he practiced under Bobby's watchful eye.

And Bobby did watch. Bobby Singer was nothing if not a practical man, and he approached Sam's recovery with a simple straightforwardness Sam might have liked in earlier times. As it was, it was still better than the falsely positive atmosphere of the hospital back in Georgia. There was a gruffness about Bobby that kept him from cheap platitudes, which at least kept Sam's sense of guilt to a minimum.

It didn't make the therapy any easier, though. If anything, Bobby pushed him harder than his physical therapist in the hospital. The routines were simple, working his muscles in equal turns, slowly building up his endurance in each major body area. The workouts had always focused on his shoulder, trying to ensure that the ligaments and muscles didn't heal too tight and permanently impair his motion. Bobby had stuck to that, but had added in a round of other exercises, working everything from his upper body to his legs.

Sam was no stranger to workouts--in fact, the physical training had been something he'd taken to with a flourish ever since leaving Stanford. He'd like the solitary effort involved with working out, pushing his body to its limits, hindered only by himself. It seemed like those were tangible things with tangible results, and in the messed up reality that was his life, he'd needed that order.

But it was harder now--on every level. The simple exercises challenged him, and he became winded far too easily. He'd been flat on his back for the better part of a month, and that alone had taken a toll on his body even without the lingering gifts of Alastair's torture.

It was sort of weird, having Bobby do all this for him. Bobby had been the one to help him out of bed in the hospital, the one to help him navigate the early solo bathroom trips. Bobby had been the one to get him water, the one to fluff his pillows. Even now, Bobby was the one organizing the training, making sure Sam slept and ate.

Not that he wouldn't have thought Bobby would go there for him, but Sam had just never figured he'd have to. That was always Dean's job.

There was a certain painfulness in acknowledging that, but Sam wouldn't let himself dwell on it. Dean had already given Sam so much, and for once it was actually kind of nice not to be a burden to his brother. Yet, that didn't make it any easier to inflict such things on Bobby, who endured the day to day trials of playing trainer and nursemaid with a certain soft passion that he hadn't expected from the gruff hunter.

It made Sam feel so guilty that he almost wished he could let go of the pain. He didn't want to fail Bobby, not after all this.

In the end, though, Sam figured it was pretty much a moot point. Sam was a failure waiting to happen, and he didn't know how to tell Bobby that without hurting his feelings.

Besides, what right did Sam have to his own life, anyway? He should be dead. He'd gotten himself killed in Cold Oak (another one of those brilliant choices he'd made) and the fact that he was still among the living didn't change the fact that Sam didn't deserve to be alive.

But not on Bobby's watch. Sam had hurt too many people; he couldn't hurt Bobby, too.

So he'd do the therapy. He'd make the small talk. He'd eat the food.

Which really was the struggle of the hour. He managed to get somewhat comfortable on Bobby's couch. It wasn't very interesting, but he'd opened a book to disguise the fact that all he wanted to do was stare into nothing and forget he existed.

It was a simple reprieve, but all too short. He could hear Bobby in the kitchen, muttering as he fiddled around, and something sizzling on the stove. Bobby had always been a creative cook, but he seemed to be pulling out all the stops these days, despite the fact that Sam had no desire to eat.

"Dinner!" Bobby yelled from the kitchen. "You two yahoos get your asses in here before it gets cold."

Sam sighed, letting the book flop next to him on the couch. He looked toward the kitchen forlornly, trying to figure out just how many painstaking steps it would take to get there.

The simple answer: too many.

But Bobby had cooked; what was Sam supposed to do?

With effort, Sam pushed himself up with his good arm. Pain flared for a moment in his side, but he willed himself on, moving his stiff legs toward the kitchen with an uneasy gait. He managed to get it under control by the time he reached the table.

Bobby had three plates laid out, mismatched but clean, and the older hunter was busily ladling steaming food onto them. Some kind of casserole--spiral noodles and tomato sauce, with an array of kidney beans, diced tomatoes and corn--served next to a cold pile of assorted vegetables.

It was warm and balanced and it made Sam's stomach turn.

"Smells good," he said feebly, awkwardly maneuvering himself into one of the seats.

Bobby made a low sound in the back of his throat. "Lots of protein in it," he said, finishing with an extra helping on Sam's plate. "It's good for you."

Sam tried to smile, picking up his fork. "Thanks," he said, trying to sound like he meant it.

Bobby looked at him, skepticism registering on his face. "So where's that brother of yours?"

With a small laugh, Sam ducked his head. "Where do you think?"

Bobby made a face of disgust. "Still?"

Sam just shrugged.

"Damn boy needs to get off his ass sometime," Bobby grumbled. "It wouldn't kill him to make an effort."

It was a familiar rant, one that Sam couldn't help but feel guilty for anyway. The fact that they were in this mess was his fault. It had always been his fault.

Sam's meager attempt at humor faded back to melancholy, and he pushed at the food on his plate. Looking up, Sam tried to offer a semblance of a smile. "Do you want me to go get him?"

Bobby snorted a bit. "I'd like to see you try."

"He might listen," Sam lied. Besides, it would get him out of eating, at least for a small time. The effort and pain it took to go find Dean would be worth it.

However, he wasn't sure any reprieve was worth talking to his brother.

He loved Dean--he really did--but that didn't make it any easier to talk to his brother these days. Dean was short with him, callous and vicious, and Sam had to wonder how much better off Dean would be if Sam had just stayed dead.

That was hard--maybe harder than the rest. The bond between them had always been the most important thing, the one thing he'd clung to even when everything else had failed. Now it just seemed to be _gone_. They coexisted, but it was like they were different people. They didn't even know each other.

It had been a little like that after Sam left Stanford, but this was so much worse, and Sam was smart enough to know why. There was no way they could know one another when they didn't know themselves at all.

Bobby gave a halfhearted shrug. "Just make it quick," he said.

Sam nodded with an anemic smile. "No problem."

Promise made, Sam had no choice but to follow through. With a deep breath, he hoisted himself up, focusing on the ache throughout his body to numb him for the emotional beating that was about to come.

-o-

This place was so _boring_.

They had only been here a few days and it already felt like the walls were closing in. Maybe it was his limited mobility, maybe it was the freakin' South Dakota winter outside, maybe it was because life was just so utterly _dull_.

Dean glared at the TV, changing the channel mindlessly.

Had life always been this boring?

It didn't seem like it. He actually had fond memories of Bobby's place, especially when he was a kid. Sure, the books inside had always seemed a little stuffy to him, even at a young age, but the place itself--the creaky walls, the vast junkyard outside--well, that had always been sort of the closest thing Dean knew to heaven.

Scrap metal and car parts, hunks of rusting gems just waiting for a healing touch or a scavenging saw and a whole lot of creativity and welding. It was the place of dreams, where spare parts and discarded junk could become something more, something _awesome_.

Dean had spent more than his fair share of time wandering the grounds aimlessly, looking for his diamond in the rough, safe within the confines of Bobby's immaculately secure wards.

Those had been good times--happy memories. A lot of happy memories. Watching Rumsfield chase mice in the yard. Playing hide and seek with Sammy among the glinting cars. Sitting with his dad next to the fire, listening to the soft breathing in his father's chest while he did research for his latest case.

Some of the best memories he had.

Except they didn't feel like _his _anymore. He knew the salvage yard was still there, mostly unchanged, and it even looked like Bobby had picked up a fair share of new ones since their last visit. But it just didn't call to him like it used to.

Nothing called to him like it used to.

Not even those buxom blondes prancing around in bikinis on TV. He didn't even have the heart to be jealous of David Hasslehoff.

Annoyed, he flipped the channel again. Bobby didn't even get cable, and the jerry-rigged rabbit ears were hit and miss with the stations. Not that it would do any good. Dean was pretty sure no matter how many channels Bobby got on his piece of crap TV, Dean would be just as mind numbingly and comprehensively _bored_.

He'd toyed with the notion of taking off--the thought had been in the back of his mind ever since he'd remastered the art of walking back in Georgia. It had niggled at him more heavily in the car with Bobby and Sam driving cross country. But where was he going to go? And more importantly, _why _did he want to go? What would he even pretend to do? To hunt? To save people?

That was downright laughable. The joke of the damn century.

Dean couldn't save anyone, and he was pretty damn tired of playing the eternal Winchester cheerleader.

He just wanted to forget that he'd ever bothered in the first place. A whole lifetime of effort, of well meaning lies, for _nothing_. His family all left him anyway--they all died out, one right after another, under Dean's ever-vigilant eye. Hell, his father had even died _for_ him, and Dean had still managed to be a disappointment after the fact.

So, what the hell. He figured he was better off with his butt parked on Bobby's couch, letting his brain rot away on static-filled craptastic programming.

Of course, this would be a hell of a lot easier if Sam wasn't around. Not that he wasn't glad that the kid was alive--he could never want Sam _dead_--but his brother was a walking talking reminder of everything Dean had ever done _wrong_. As if he hadn't had enough nightmares about Sam's death, now he had to face them on a whole new level of horror. Sam's very _existence_ was a testament to Dean's epic failure. Dean had given everything he had and it still hadn't even been close to enough.

That weight--that encompassing, horrible weight--eclipsed everything else.

He needed to find Bobby's alcohol--badly. He didn't know where the older man had stashed it, but the well meaning caretaker routine was enough to make Dean reconsider his plan to stick around. At least at a motel he could drink himself into oblivion and watch Pay Per View while he got there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam slink into the room. The kid had his head ducked, and he didn't move past the doorway. He stood there rigidly, his arm still tucked against his torso, obviously waiting to be acknowledged.

As far as Dean was concerned, he could keep on waiting. He flipped the channel, squinting to try to make out the picture beyond the snowy static on screen.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Bobby wanted me to tell you that dinner was ready."

Dean didn't look at his brother. "I heard him yell."

Sam waited a beat. "So, um. Bobby wanted you to come eat."

Dean grunted a bit. "And why exactly does this matter to me?"

Sam shifted, grimacing as he moved his weight from one leg to another. The kid was clearly uncomfortable there, but it wasn't like this was much easier for Dean. Thinking of what that monster had done to Sam--what he'd done to Sam while Dean was _right there_--

It was enough to make the rage boil up in his throat until he almost choked on it.

But he always swallowed it back down. After all, Dean had nothing else he _could _do.

It was something, at least, that Sam's bruises were gone. Now he could at least keep himself from flinching when he accidentally caught his eye. Now, he could just look through Sam altogether, as if Sam were barely tethered to this damn forsaken plane at all.

"He put a lot of time into it," Sam said, sounding weary, a little desperate. They both knew how this conversation would go--at least, they should. They had it every night.

"That's great for him," Dean said. "Tell him to buy some beer next time and I'll consider coming in."

Sam's response was well meaning, but fell flat. He just didn't have the little brother charm these days. "We need to get our strength back up."

Dean snickered a bit at that. "Yeah, and how's that going for you, Sam?" he asked, giving his brother a pointed look.

Sam blanched a little. "I just--was trying to do Bobby a favor."

A small stab of guilt hit Dean in the gut. But he had to do this. It wasn't his responsibility to be Sam's big brother. It _wasn't_. The sooner they learned that, the better off they'd both be.

Throat tight, Dean stared hard at the TV. "Yeah, well, do _me _a favor, and tell Bobby to leave me the hell alone."

At that, Sam nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. Sorry to bother you."

The guilt wouldn't go away--not with Sam's damn puppy eyes the way they were. Behind all the deference and apologies, Sam really wanted him to come.

And that really was the hardest. Not just that he couldn't be Sam's big brother, but that Sam still _wanted _him to, and Dean would have to let him down again. There'd been a time when Dean couldn't refuse Sam anything.

But that was a part of himself that Dean had left back on that altar where Alastair had taken it apart--taken _Dean_ apart. Took it along with everything else good that Dean had ever had.

His brother shuffled in the doorway, turning with a limping gait back toward the kitchen. Distantly, he heard Bobby curse and the clink of silverware on glass filled the room.

Damn distraction, Dean thought. He sniffled, wiping at his nose. He needed to forget about it, needed to let it go.

With no other way out, Dean just turned up the volume until he couldn't hear anything at all.

-o-

It had been a hell of a week.

Of course, South Dakota in winter had never been Bobby's favorite thing, but it was just one of those unfortunate things he'd always taken as part of the job. His property was vast, which not only made for a good junkyard, but afforded him good space and distance, both from the supernatural pests as well as the human variety.

But still--those winters were always a beast. Cold and hard. Even when there wasn't a blanket of white as far as the eye could see, everything just seemed frigid and frozen, as though the cold had permeated everything. It made the area feel like a wasteland.

Mostly, he'd always made do. That was just the way it was for Bobby. Hot or cold, rain or shine, Bobby got by, did his own thing, and handled the rest as it came.

At least, that was what he'd done until now.

He was somewhat used to having the Winchester boys crash at his place. Ever since they'd come back into his life, they'd been an increasingly common presence, and Bobby knew they'd fallen into their old routines--Sam on the couch, Dean on the floor, bitching over who got the first shower in the morning while the water was still somewhat warm.

If only it were that easy this time.

In all truth, the week had been painfully slow--in all possible ways. From watching the pain written across Sam's face as he moved, to watching the clock tick by as Dean did _nothing_, playing Uncle Bobby was certainly taking a toll on him.

He wasn't mad about it, of course. He could still remember those early days in the hospital, seeing the boys look more dead than alive. It was enough to make him keep trying no matter how difficult the two jackasses made things, but now he was just frustrated.

And maybe a little stir crazy.

Or a _lot _stir crazy.

Through it all, he'd been patient and gentle, keeping them on a schedule with their ongoing physical therapy and consistent small meals throughout the day. Dr. Cameron had told him it'd be slow going, that they would need space and encouragement, but they'd get there eventually.

Eventually couldn't come soon enough. Not even a week and Bobby was wondering if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life checking the boys out and bringing them here.

Not that he'd really had another choice. Their physical injuries were healing as best they could, and there wasn't a damn thing the shrink at the hospital could do for those boys. No, Bobby had to trust that was where they needed to be even if they were too lost and stubborn to see it themselves.

It didn't make it any easier, though.

The lethargy, the wincing, the utter slowness of it all.

In all, it was pretty damn near ridiculous. Neither boy had even managed to stay awake until midnight on New Years Eve, leaving Bobby alone with a bottle of woefully insufficient sparkling grape juice and Dick Clark's countdown on mute in the background.

John Winchester owed him one. More like ten.

Of course, Bobby still wasn't doing it for him. He was still doing it for the boys. Which was enough to get up morning after morning to keep them on track. He had to build their strength, build their confidence, build _them_, any damn way he could.

He'd tried enticing Dean with a mechanics project. He'd tried getting Sam back into research. Both of those efforts had met with varied and lackluster results, so it was time for a new tactic.

Which led him to the task of the day: sparring.

It might have been a little early for that, but they'd been back in South Dakota for a week now, and Bobby was running out of things to motivate the boys. Between Sam following him around like a lost puppy and Dean sulking in the front room watching TV, Bobby figured some honest physical activity would do them some good. They needed the exercise, and doing something spontaneous and interactive might make things more interesting than the repetitive exercises he'd picked up from the hospital. Plus, he knew these two, and they were competitive at heart. A little brotherly action could help pull them out of their respective funks.

It had been a bit of a task, though, getting the barn set up. He used it for tools and repairs. He'd had to use a blower to make sure the floor was free from any pieces of metal or scraps that could be harmful. Luckily the thing was wired, so he'd plugged in a few space heaters to take an edge off the winter air. He would have used a room inside, but his old place was simply too small and too cramped. Besides, the fresh air would do them all some good.

The bigger trick had been getting both boys out there--at the same time, no less. Sam had readily agreed, though Bobby could see the hesitation on his face, and when the kid had flinched so horribly just taking off his heavy jacket, Bobby had considered calling the whole thing off right then and there.

But he'd actually gotten Dean to join them, and that was the coup he couldn't overlook. Dean didn't do anything these days, least of all when he was asked to. Bobby had found his weakness, though--he'd simply threatened to throw the old TV out the window. The small coercion worked, with much grousing from the older Winchester, but Bobby would take what he could get. This was likely going to be his only chance for a while to get these two kids back on track.

It had to be like riding a bike. Sam and Dean were trained--and thoroughly so. John had always been rough on his kids, treating them like recruits, not children more often than not. As a consequence, both boy were knowledgeable in weapons and self defense on a level that was well beyond their years.

So sure, they might be a little rusty--Bobby had expected that. Hell, given everything they had been through, it was a given. But he hadn't quite expected them to be so...well..._pathetic_.

Sam looked like he was trying at least, his forehead scrunched with the effort and concentration. But every move the youngest Winchester made was stilted, almost reserved, and his mouth was twisted in a permanent grimace. He had always been prone to fighting defensive, but that was multiplied tenfold as he curled away protectively when Dean as much as stepped in his direction. Sam couldn't seem to extend either arm well enough, and his punches were so slow that Dean could see them coming a mile off. The kid's kicks were a bit better coordinated, but that didn't stop Sam from flailing around like a newborn colt most of the time.

Sam's only saving grace during the sparring was that Dean was too indifferent to mount anything resembling a serious offense. His punches were downright lazy, haphazard haymakers that could have caused real damage if they connected, but whiffed more often than they even came close to connecting. It was clear that Dean could be more agile as he ducked and spun from Sam's off kilter efforts, but Bobby saw him pass on multiple opportunities to take Sam down with a simple submission hold.

Not that Bobby wanted the brothers to beat each other senseless, but he had been hoping that the activity would wake them up a bit. It was almost painful to watch. Sam and Dean were mere shadows of themselves, weak approximations of the boys he used to know.

Clenching his jaw hard, he forced himself to just watch. It felt almost masochistic, though, and he was beginning to seriously regret trying this at all.

Dean lashed out with a right that should have connected, but didn't. Sam responded late, twisting away in defense. It was enough to miss the wayward blow, but wreaked havoc with his balance, and the younger boy tripped over his own feet in his effort to evade the punch. He fumbled, arms going wide as if to reclaim some semblance of control, but it was too late. He went down hard, refusing to use either arm to catch himself and cushion the fall.

As if that weren't enough, his downward movement extended wildly to his legs, which kicked out aimlessly, tangling hopelessly in Dean's.

The older brother was too off his game to stop himself, his balance suffering easily. He spat a curse, but couldn't stop himself, his legs too ensnared to regain control. Dean went down, on top of Sam.

Their bodies collided on the ground with equal _oofs_, and Bobby winced at the meaty thunk as it resounded through to the rafters of the barn.

It actually might have been funny--all that flailing and swearing and complete awkwardness--if the boys weren't recovering from life threatening injuries.

Rushing forward, Bobby started with Dean, pulling him off his younger brother. Dean yelped angrily, letting loose another string of obscenities. He stumbled off his brother with force, retreating from Bobby's helping hands with malice in his eyes. Dean was panting and red-faced but okay.

Turning his attention to Sam, Bobby saw the younger boy was white as a sheet, wide eyed.

For a second, Bobby feared the worst. He remembered the bruises and cuts, the bandages and tubes. He remembered the long days in the hospital with nothing but silence.

Swallowing hard, Bobby fought the unbidden sting in his eyes. "Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice thick with a sudden surge of emotion.

Dean snorted. "What the hell do you think?"

Sam nodded meagerly.

Bobby looked at Sam, still on the ground, then looked at Dean, standing off from them. They were okay. No blood, no tears. No fresh cuts, no new bruises. They were _okay_.

Blowing out a breath, Bobby forced himself to calm. He needed to keep it together. He had no choice. He couldn't help them unless he was in control of himself.

And they so clearly needed his help, even if they weren't ready to take it.

With another steadying breath, Bobby offered a hand to Sam. The kid took it reluctantly, letting himself be hoisted to his feet.

Making sure Sam was steady, Bobby sighed, taking off his hat and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "That's enough for today," he said, pulling his cap back on.

Dean snorted again. "I think it was probably enough for forever," he muttered.

Bobby ignored him.

For his part, Sam smiled, a little sheepish. "Thanks for trying," he said.

Bobby couldn't be sure which was worse--Dean's poor attitude or Sam's eternal gratitude.

In the end, which one was worse didn't matter. He had to fix them both--and soon. "Yeah, well, thanks for giving it a go today," Bobby returned. "Why don't you two head back inside?"

Dean just shook his head, already turned and headed in that direction.

Sam took the time to pick up his coat, giving Bobby one last halfhearted smile before he trailed after his brother.

It was hard to watch them go. Hard to watch them suffering so much. How was he going to fix the things they wouldn't talk about? How was he going to get them back on track? How was he going to show them that there was still something worth fighting for--that _they_ were still worth fighting for?

Bobby knew there wasn't a quick fix, but he needed _any _fix. Something to get them focused. To get them grounded. To help them reconnect--if not with themselves, then with each other.

That always had been the thing with the two of them. Even when they couldn't take care of their own damned problems, the other one could step up and do it for them. When one was weak, the other was strong. They trusted each other, implicitly, and it had always been all they needed.

More than a good meal and a strong training program, that was what they needed--_each other_. Bobby could never hope to fix one or the other. He had to redirect their focus on the one thing that made them stronger than anyone else Bobby had ever met.

In short, he had to make them remember what it meant to be brothers.

Chewing his lower lip, he thought he might just have the trick. It would be hard to get them to do it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

_Take care of my boys_.

That was what Bobby had promised John, what he had promised _himself_, and he wasn't about to give up on that just yet.

-o-

Sam felt guilty about Bobby. The older hunter was trying so hard--too hard--but Sam didn't know how to live up to everything that Bobby wanted from him. He could eat the meals, he could do the exercises, but he just couldn't let himself go. He just couldn't be _normal_ again.

He was being downright pathetic, and he knew it. But what else was he supposed to do? He _was _pathetic. Worse, he was _tainted_.

The images from Alastair's trip inside his brain were too hard to shake. _Why, Sam, why_?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam pinched hard at the bridge of his nose, trying to make the throbbing memories subside.

Finding his father on the floor of the hospital. Dean crying out for mercy in the cabin in Missouri. Jessica on the ceiling. The blood in his mouth as a baby. _Why, Sam, why_?

Because he was _evil_. He was evil and he was wrong and he killed everyone he loved. His very _life_ was wrong. He died in Cold Oak--he should still be _dead_.

And yet, here he was. Causing problems for Dean all over again. Causing problems for Bobby.

Opening his eyes, Sam looked around the room wearily again. He had to stop being a burden, at least as much as he could. It'd be easier if he wasn't so _tired_ all the time.

With a sigh, he forced himself to his feet. There wasn't anything he could do for Dean, but Bobby seemed to like it when Sam took the initiative on things.

It wasn't much, but it was as much as Sam could do these days. Burying the gnawing ache throughout his body, he ambled as casually as he could to the study. Dean was sprawled out on the couch, watching something mindless on TV. Bobby was hunched over at the table, scowling.

Between Dean's vacant watching and Bobby's focused concentration, Sam sort of wished he'd stayed in the other room.

It was too late for that, though, and Sam's body was too sore to want to take the short walk back to the other room anyway.

Bolstering the vestiges of his resolve, Sam pulled out the chair across from Bobby, sitting down as gently as he could. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Bobby spared him a glance before looking back at his open text again. "Just this hunt I'm looking into for a friend," he said shortly.

Sam nodded, wishing Bobby would elaborate. When no such elaboration came, Sam forced himself to prod. "What kind of hunt?"

Bobby sighed, shaking his head. "Hard to say for sure," he admitted. "I was put onto it by a friend of mine out in California. He was on his way to check it out but got waylaid by a vamp's nest up in Seattle."

Sam nodded again, trying to match Bobby's level of concern and thought. He peeked at the texts--something about highway deaths. "Ghost?" he asked.

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe, but until someone gets down there and does some leg work, it's really hard to say."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Bobby's eyes lifted at that, meeting Sam's with something akin to hope.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Bobby's gaze skittered away, the pinched look of concern settling over his features once again. "Not much we can do," he said with a frown. "I can't leave the place for another week to go help him. I'm way behind on the salvage yard as it is."

Sam hadn't even considered that. Bobby was a hunter in his mind; the salvage yard had always seemed like a side occupation. A hobby or a cover. But even hunters had bills, and with as many roots as Bobby had in South Dakota, it was pretty clear that aliases and credit card scams were out. Bobby used the salvage yard as a legitimate business--his livelihood--and Sam had taken him away from that for an entire month.

Worse, he was still there, using up resources, giving nothing of substance back.

Dean grunted from the couch. "Like it matters."

Bobby spared his brother a glance, and Sam sat up straighter, feeling compelled to offer something more. He owed Bobby--even if he didn't care much about his own recovery or his own life for that matter, Bobby had worked hard to get them both here. He owed the hunter _something_.

Besides, research was his thing, the one area of the hunt he'd always considered himself proficient at. "Well, maybe I can give it a look," Sam offered.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "You think you're up for it?"

Sam nodded earnestly. "I haven't managed to hurt myself reading a book yet," he said with a weak grin.

Bobby returned his smile, pushing the open book Sam's way. "That area hasn't got much history of any supernatural problems, so we're looking at something somewhat modern." Bobby pointed midway down the page. "I did find some references to road spirits here, but I'm not sure that's what we're looking at."

Sam scanned the page quickly. "Unless it was transplanted from somewhere, you'd think there'd be more sightings in the area."

"Deaths started up just a few months ago."

"How many fatalities?" Sam asked.

Bobby handed him a stack of printouts. "About three, so far."

Sam flipped through them, grimacing a little. "And your friend can't check it out?"

Bobby shook his head, looking regretful. "The vamps tied him up longer than he thought. He thinks it'll be at least another week before he has that mess cleaned up."

"You should go yourself," Dean sniped from the couch. "You do seem to be hell bent on saving pitiful souls these days."

Sam flinched a little at the tone, but Bobby gave Dean a withering look. "At least most of them would be grateful," he snapped back.

"I never asked to be saved," Dean said, not looking up from the TV.

"You wanted to be left in that warehouse to die?" Bobby asked.

Sam tried to control his breathing, the memories of the candles, the bare bulb, the cold stone beneath him, the bite of metal around his wrist--

"Couldn't have been worse than _this_," Dean said. He finally looked back. "Admit it, old man. You wish you'd left us there."

"I wasn't the one who dragged you to the hospital, so don't look at me."

The comment cut through Sam's growing discomfort, bringing a facet of his time in Alastair's clutches into focus. He remembered how he got caught. He remembered the painfully creative ways Alastair had decimated him. He even remembered the would-be finishing blow from Alastair's powers. And he remembered waking up.

But he didn't remember who saved him.

Funny, in all of his nightmares, all of his waking terrors, the question had never really occurred to him. What made Alastair stop. Who took them to the hospital. If not Bobby...

Dean's face showed similar thoughts, and he regarded Bobby with sudden coolness.

Bobby smirked a bit. "You curious?" he asked.

"What do you know?" Dean demanded sharply.

"What's it worth to you?"

Dean made a face. "What?"

"What is that information worth to you?"

"Are you blackmailing me?" Dean questioned with bitter incredulity.

Bobby just shrugged. "Just thought we could do each other a favor."

"You don't have anything I need," Dean said with a huff, turning back to the TV.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. As afraid as he was to find out, he was even more terrified of not knowing.

"Suit yourself," Bobby said.

Sam shook his head, wetting his lips. "What do you want us to do?"

Bobby looked at him, a bit resigned. "Just a favor."

"Name it," Sam replied instantly.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean cut him off. "He's screwing with you."

Sam looked to his brother. "Don't you want to know? Come on, don't you _need _to know?"

"I know everything I need to," Dean told him, giving Sam a nonplussed glance. "I know we should have died on Alastair's table, and that's all that matters."

There was some truth to that--Sam knew that much--but something in him needed to know.

Dean did, too. Even if his older brother wouldn't admit it, Sam could see it in his face.

Sam held Dean's gaze, tilting his head imploringly. He needed this. _They _needed this.

Dean's face hardened and his nostrils flared. He turned angry eyes to Bobby again. "What is it you want from us?"

"Just a little help on this case."

"A little help with your dumb ass road spirit case," Dean clarified. "That's it?"

"That's it," Bobby promised.

Dean hesitated, looking at Sam again, before turning his defiant eyes back to Bobby. "Fine."

Bobby's face lit up with victory. "Good," he said. Then he pulled himself together, eyes darting between them. "You boys sure you're ready for this?"

"You already blackmailed us into it," Dean said shortly.

Bobby took a breath, nodding. "Now understand, I don't know all the details," he started.

Dean groaned. "You tricked us then."

"I got a phone call," Bobby persisted, giving Dean a meaningful look.

"Oh, wow, that's insightful," Dean said.

Sam ignored him. "From who?" he asked.

Bobby pressed his lips together, his eyes lingering on Sam's. "Your daddy."

Sam's mind stopped working. Of all the answers, of all the possibilities, that had been one that hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd considered Bob, he'd considered a wayward stranger. He'd considered Azazel or some twist of fate from Alastair himself.

But their father?

The one with black eyes? The one who had hunted them down and tried to _kill them_?

"You're lying," Dean said, his voice low and deadly.

Bobby shook his head. "I was pretty surprised myself," he said.

Dean swore. "You're screwing with us," he said. "Sammy, he's screwing with us."

Sam almost believed it. Almost had to believe it.

"He called my emergency line," Bobby informed them. "No one has that number. No demon could ever get that number."

"But Dad has it," Sam breathed.

"That doesn't mean anything," Dean said, his denials adamant and strong.

"Why?" Sam asked. "Why would he...after everything...?"

Bobby shrugged. "I couldn't tell you," he said.

"That's because it's not true," Dean insisted.

"Why would I lie to you about that?" Bobby asked, and for a moment his pretenses were gone. The words were aggravated and desperate. He composed himself, his voice dropping. "I was pretty damn surprised myself, couldn't figure out his angle. But he...he wanted me to take care of you. I think he's the one who took you to the hospital. He's the one who made sure your aliases were covered. I don't know what connections he has, but he has to have some good ones."

"He was probably in on it," Dean said. "The son of a bitch was Alastair's BFF down under."

"I thought about that," Bobby conceded. "But John said he had to take care of things. I think there's a reason he didn't stick around even after he made sure you were taken care of."

"But _why_?" Sam asked again, voice raw and mind reeling.

Bobby turned earnest eyes to him. "Because somewhere in that mess he's in, he still loves you."

_He still loves you_.

Sam had been so terrified that their father had died thinking Sam hated him. He had been so angry thinking that their father could have died hating him. All he'd ever wanted was a second chance, to know he was more than a burden, more than a curse. A son. _He still loves you_.

"So," Bobby said. "What about that favor."

Sam looked blankly at the older man and Dean snorted in condescension from the couch. "You think lying to us warrants a favor?"

The older man's posture stiffened and his face hardened. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes and a no-nonsense timber in his voice. "I told you what I know."

Dean blew out an angry breath. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Fine. One favor, old man. Nothing more, nothing less."

A small grin spread across Bobby's face, with an ornery twinkle of hope in his eyes. "I got it all ready for you," he said.

"Throw some books at me then," Dean said, flipping off the TV.

"It's not in a book," Bobby told them.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Then where?"

Bobby's gaze wandered to the window, looking out onto the front drive. The Impala was parked there, freshly washed and sparkling, a pile of bags clearly visible in the backseat.

"Dude," Dean said. "No way."

"You said you'd help," Bobby told him with a shrug.

"No _way_."

"A promise is a promise, Dean," Bobby reminded him. "Now get your ass out there before I kick you to the curb myself."

Sam gaped a little, closing his mouth. He laughed lightly. "Not bad," he said, shaking his head.

"You're going to compliment him?" Dean said crossly.

"He did say one favor."

Dean muttered a curse. "Fine," he said. "But I'm driving, and if I hear one word out of you about the music, I'm going to leave your ass on the side of the road."

With that, Dean stormed toward the front door. Sam glanced at Bobby, a small smile on his face, before he headed after his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

_This fog gives a whole new meaning to the term 'pea soup'_, thought Maggie as she lifted her foot off the accelerator and peered through the windshield at the gray gloom surrounding her. Slowly she pressed down on the gas pedal and started inching the car forward around the sharp turn of the narrow winding mountain road. This was the last time she would take Harris Grade back from Santa Maria after dark. So what if going past Vandenberg took longer? Going two miles an hour in this fog made it all –

"Oh my God!" She slammed on the brakes, grateful she was going so slowly. "What on earth…"

-0-

The sun broke through the heavy rain clouds, the rays laying a shiny path for the black Chevy Impala as it travelled down the lonely highway.

"You keep driving like an old lady and the entire state of California will be dead before we get there," Sam complained, glaring at his brother across the front seat before slapping on his sunglasses.

The only answer to Sam's comment was the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the tires on the wet road as Dean's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

"Come on, man, I know you don't want to do this," Sam said. "What do you want to do? Turn around, go back to Bobby's? Tell him to find someone else because we can't do this anymore?" Sam waited, hoping for some type of reaction from his stoic-faced brother. He watched as Dean's jaw muscles bunched up.

"Dean?" Silence from the other side of the car. "Dean!"

"Fine."

The Impala's rapid acceleration jerked Sam into the back of his seat as Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

"Jesus, Dean, slow the hell down!" Sam grimaced as pain shot through his newly-healed shoulder.

"You wanted faster." Dean didn't take his eyes off the road -- a road that was thankfully empty of any other vehicles.

"Not like this. DEAN! I've already been dead once, I don't want to die again. Slow down!"

The heavy car fishtailed as Dean slammed on the brakes and steered them jerkily off to the side of the road. He yanked the gearshift into park and sat there drawing in huge gulps of air as he stared stubbornly out the windshield.

Sam clutched the dashboard as though his very life depended on it. He was doing his own version of jaw-clenched heavy breathing and wanted nothing more at this moment than to smack his blasted big brother right upside the head. What was wrong with him?

Sam shook his head; he knew what was wrong with Dean, what was wrong with both of them.

_Alastair_.

"Just what exactly do you want from me?" Dean took his hands off the wheel and flexed his fingers with a slight scowl.

"A little bit of normality would be appreciated," Sam muttered under his breath. "Not _that_ kind of normal," he added quickly before Dean could react. 'Normal' was like a red cape to a bull when it came to Dean. "Normal for us."

"Well, I don't happen to feel too _normal _right now, Sam. Do you want to do this hunt or not?"

"Do I…?" Sam scowled. "You're the one who's dawdling along like a one-legged man in a snow drift. Can't you simply drive like normal? We can get a motel or drive straight through, like _normal_, and we can do this stupid hunt, like NORMAL. You know? The family business? Saving people, hunting things?"

Sam very carefully did not add that it was the last thing he wanted to be doing either. He wasn't sure they were even ready for this hunt. If it actually was one.

"You're awfully eager for this hunt all of a sudden, why?" Dean glanced out the side window and Sam realised his brother hadn't looked at him straight on since they'd started the trip west.

Sam slumped in his seat. He couldn't do this. How could he get Dean to want this when he couldn't even get himself on board? What right did he have to push Dean into doing something he didn't want to do himself? What was the point to all this anyway? He'd been a worthless hindrance to their dad, and now he was broken limb dragging his brother down. What had Bobby been thinking, to send them on this hunt?

_Bobby…_ Their friend had gone above and beyond the call of duty when it came right down to it. He'd been there whenever they needed him and lately he'd pretty much put his life on hold while they tried to put themselves back together. They owed Bobby more than they could ever repay him.

"I don't want to let Bobby down," Sam replied softly, ignoring his inner voice. "He's done a lot for us, not just lately, but ever since…" He shut his mouth before 'Dad died' could get out. Another red cape warning for his brother.

Dean was quiet for a moment as the sun disappeared behind the incoming thick grey clouds and the rain started up again, the drops splashing against the outside of the car. Sam could imagine the thoughts running through his brother's head as he pondered what Sam had said. Which way was Dean going to swing? For the hunt? Or back to Bobby's?

"Point. Okay, so tell me about this case." Dean put the car in gear and slowly pulled back onto the road.

Sam slipped his sunglasses off and waited, watching as Dean increased their speed until they were finally back to the 'normal' race-car style the Impala was used to.

"It's in a town called Lompoc," Sam began. "Several people have been killed recently, um, falling down a mountain, leaving their cars behind on the road. Nobody knows why, and the police are stumped."

"Stumped cops, what a surprise," Dean said dryly.

"They're dying from injuries sustained in a car accident, except their cars are fine and no-where near them."

"Huh. Sounds like a ghost."

"That's what Bobby's friend thought. We… I… We'll need to do more research once we get there; the newspaper's online, but not very complete." Research. He was good at looking up obscure bits of trivia. If nothing else, he could still do that properly.

"Yeah."

Sam didn't know what to do with his brother. He simply didn't recognise this Dean. While an over-protective, hovering brother drove him crazy at times, Sam had to admit to the feeling of comfort it also gave him. He'd always known no matter what, Dean would be there.

Until now. Dean's uncaring, cavalier attitude towards what had happened to them and to Sam's injuries was something he'd never experienced before. This was not the big brother who'd sold his soul to the devil in order to bring Sam back from the dead. And while Sam – intellectually – knew it was Dean's way of coping with all that had gone on, emotionally it hurt almost as much as Alastair's knife.

He'd forgiven Dean for ignoring him and treating him like crap. He had. It had been difficult, but he loved his brother and could understand where Dean was coming from in all this.

Sam sighed. At least Dean was commenting on the case now; that he was retaining anything was an entirely different ball of wax.

Bobby had called this a simple salt and burn. Sam leaned his head against the side window; in his experience nothing was ever simple when it came to the Winchester family.

-0-

Lompoc was a small town with nothing to really set it apart from any other average city in the United States. It most likely wouldn't even exist if it weren't for the Air Force Base it supported. At least it wasn't raining here. As they slowly cruised down what appeared to be a main street, Sam pointed out a hotel on the left.

"There. Star Motel. They have kitchenettes," he added hopefully, reading the small print on the dilapidated sign; anything to break up the greasy monotony of diners, drive-ins and dives.

Making a quick turn across the oncoming traffic into what passed for a parking lot, Dean grunted. "Looks like it hasn't been updated since man discovered fire."

"Hopefully their credit card system is just as antiquated. What?" he added as Dean turned to stare at him, right eyebrow raised.

"Antiquated?"

"Yeah, it means―"

"I know what it means, Sam," Dean spit out. "You couldn't just say 'old-fashioned'?"

Sam glared at his brother. "Apparently not. So who's checking us in?"

Dean shifted around till he could reach into his back pocket for his wallet. Pulling out a credit card, he blithely waved it under Sam's nose, laughing when Sam proceeded to slap at the offending hand. "Jerry Corbetta is going to be shelling out for this trip."

The lobby―although it was pretty much a misnomer, being more of a miniature closet than an actual space to allow people to gather with their luggage for the check in process―was tiny, dark and dingy.

"Yeah?" The old man sitting behind the counter was old enough to have been sharing space with the hotel when fire was discovered.

"We need a room." Dean smiled and Sam tried to hide his own grin. To anyone who didn't know his brother, the smile was friendly and inviting; just the kind to lure unsuspecting fish into the shark's big mouth.

"One bed or two?"

"Two," Sam said, just a half-beat ahead of Dean.

"Only got rooms with one bed. Can give you one with a couch, too, though." He cleared his throat and spit the results out onto the floor.

Sam casually took a step back. "Then why did you ask… Never mind. The sign said you have kitchenettes?"

"Yeah, want one? Extra $100 a week."

"A week? What if we only want one night?" Dean asked, pissed.

"Embassy Suites, Holiday Inn, Quality Inn―all down on 'H' Street. Best Western next door; you want cheap, or you wouldn't have stopped here," the old guy pointed out. "We do weeks, $250. $350 with the kitchen."

"Fine," Dean ground out. "You take credit cards?"

A dirty hand was held out. Apparently, the answer was yes. Dean handed over good ole Jerry's card and Sam smiled as he saw the _old-fashioned _manual imprinter.

After they'd taken possession of the room key―singular―there wasn't an extra one – the brothers gathered their duffle bags and cautiously entered the room. It had a lot in common with the old man in the pseudo-lobby and smelled even worse.

"This is…gah, Dean, I swear there's something dead in here," Sam gagged. The walls were that yellow-ish mud color created by who-knew-how-many years of cigarette smoke build-up.

"Open the windows."

It was a rather superfluous order since Sam was already struggling with one. He grunted in frustration; the damn thing wasn't being terribly obliging.

"We're not eating in this kitchen," Dean said as he finished a quick perusal of the small rooms. "I'm not taking a piss or a dump in this bathroom, either," he added after a short glance behind the rickety door.

"There's a Quik-Stop next door," Sam pointed out, moving on to the second window having wrestled the first one into submission. "Maybe some cleaning supplies are in order?"

"It'll take more than soap to make this place liveable," Dean complained. "I'll be back. Behave yourself while I'm gone."

Sam was tempted to stick his tongue out at Dean's retreating back, but somehow he knew his brother would sense the childish gesture and retaliation would not be sweet. Instead, he focused his energy on wiping down what was trying to pass itself off as a kitchen table so he could set up his laptop. There had to be wi-fi floating around somewhere that he could 'borrow'.

And….there was. Twenty minutes later Sam had access to the internet courtesy of a David Hawkins who obviously knew nothing about security, and was busily checking the history archive of the _Lompoc Record_.

A loud kick at the door was followed by Dean's shout to "quit playing with yourself and open the damn door now!"

Sam got up from the table, frowning. He _had _asked for normal. "Forget the key?"

"Duh." Dean held up both arms, hands full of plastic bags. Comet, bleach, dish soap, some towels…

"You couldn't bring back anything to eat?" Sam complained.

"Brought beer."

"To eat, Dean. You know, sustenance? Protein?"

"Not in this piece of landfill kitchen."

"Well, great." Sam waited till Dean had unloaded the bags before grabbing a beer and sitting back down at his laptop. He'd research and Dean could clean. Perfect division of labor as far as he was concerned; what Dean thought of it, well, that was something Sam couldn't be bothered to even consider right now. He'd most likely guess wrong anyway.

-0-

Sam rubbed his head tiredly. His shoulder throbbed from all the tap-tap-tapping at the keyboard, his head hurt from page after page of tiny print; hell, his entire ginormous body was one huge ache. He jumped slightly when four Tylenol and a glass of water were quietly placed next to his right hand. Sam glanced up but Dean already had his head and hands back in the sink, quietly scrubbing away.

"Thanks."

A shrug and a slight hand wave were Dean's only reply.

"Do you want to hear what I've found out?" Sam asked softly.

Dean paused, shrugged again, before finally turning slowly around. "Sure." Neither his face nor his posture agreed with his affirmative reply.

Sam took a deep breath and began. "The road is Harris Grade; it's a short cut between Santa Maria and Lompoc. It's one of those narrow old mountain roads. People started dying last November and there really isn't anything tying them together that I can find in the news accounts. We have six dead people and no leads."

"That's about as useful as tits on a boar, Sammy," Dean commented as he gathered up his cleaning materials. "You keep going maybe you'll find something before someone else dies."

Sam sucked in a deep breath; his brother did not just say that. He watched as Dean paused for half a second then continued putting things away. No, Sam simply didn't hear right; Dean would never accuse Sam of something like that. Even if … no, he just wouldn't do it.

"We need to get out and start talking to the victims' family or friends," was all Sam said.

Dean grabbed a beer and planted himself firmly in the lopsided recliner―this was apparently the promised 'couch'―and switched on the TV.

"Dean?"

The remote quickly switched to another channel, then another one.

Sam sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

"You hungry, Dean?" After trying unsuccessfully for several minutes to gain his brother's attention, Sam finally stepped directly in front of the television.

"Make a better door than a window," was Dean's only response.

"What does that mean, anyway?" Sam asked.

"It means move your ass out of my way," Dean growled. Sam didn't move. "Okay, yeah, I'm hungry. Go get something."

"I'm not your personal slave, dude!"

"No, you're my personal geisha girl. Fine, let's go eat then we can get this show on the road. You're really dragging your ass on this one, Sam. What's wrong with you? You'd think you wanted more people to die." Dean switched off the TV and tossed the remote on the floor.

Sam could feel his jaw drop. It made a little cracking sound as it flopped around in the breeze below his open mouth. That was the second time Dean had made a comment like that. It proved to Sam how unlike himself Dean was being, that he still wasn't over what happened with Alastair.

He sighed. He wasn't over it, either. Why did he expect Dean to be?

"Stop sighing, Sammy, you sound like a wheezing geriatric," Dean said as he gathered up his jacket and headed for the door.

"Geriatric?"

"Yeah, it means--"

"I know what it means, Dean, I'm just surprised you do."

"I'm not as stupid as you look, little brother," Dean smirked and waltzed out the door.

Instead of heading for the car, however, Dean continued around the front of the motel and into the restaurant―and Sam used the term loosely―next door.

Juanita's Kitchen resembled the dive it sounded like and Sam hoped Juanita's _kitchen _was cleaner than their kitchenette had been before Dean attacked it with the scouring pad. It was small and dark and smelled like hot peppers and various spices. The green and white paper lanterns placed strategically around the ceiling didn't do much to help with illumination any more than the kitschy candles on the tables did.

Dean paid very little attention to the waitress, Maria – according to her name tag – who appeared to take their order. If Sam needed any proof than they weren't back to normal yet, this pretty much clinched it. It was almost impossible for Dean to NOT hit on anything female, especially if it was over 18 and had as much thrusting forward as this one did.

"I'll have a number four and a beer." Dean closed his menu and handed it over, barely glancing at the waitress.

She turned her attention to Sam. "Taco salad, please, and a beer."

Sam sat there quietly wondering if Dean was going to show any interest in the hunt or not – assuming it really was a hunt. Perhaps it was simply a psycho going around murdering people for reasons that had nothing to do with the supernatural. Maybe they were wasting their time here. He could be totally wrong about what was going on. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd been wrong about something.

"I think I need to do more research."

Dean looked up from where he'd been playing with his silverware. "What?"

"Look, this may not even be a case for us. I think I need to do more research, make sure it isn't some nut-job out whacking people for the thrill of it."

"I thought you said you'd found everything you could online."

"I did, but―"

"Then you found everything available. Research is what you do best, Sammy. If you can't find it, then it doesn't exist."

Sam took a deep breath and let it slowly, trying his best to make it not sound like a sigh. Dean was bouncing back and forth between being a complete and utter jerk one minute and his supportive big brother the next. Not knowing what was going to come out of Dean's mouth next was driving Sam crazy. Currently it seemed big brother mode was winning.

Sam carefully re-arranged his napkin to sit underneath his knife and spoon, ignoring the strange look he got from Dean. "But what if it isn't supernatural?"

"Then it won't―" Dean stopped as the waitress came up to the table with their food. He was quiet as the plates were placed in front of them and the usual―these are hot, don't touch―warning was given. After the beers were set down and Maria had left, Dean took a drink before going on. "If it isn't supernatural, it shouldn't take us long to figure it out."

Sam repeatedly jabbed his fork into the pile of lettuce in front of him.

"Eat it, don't play with it." Dean spooned salsa onto his taco and took a big bite, crunching contentedly.

Sam shoved a forkful into his mouth while glaring at his brother. He wasn't six years old anymore!

"If the interviews don't help, we'll hit the newspaper office or the library tomorrow and see what else we can find," Dean said, ignoring Sam's belligerent stare.

"We?"

"Yeah. As in you and me," Dean said between mouthfuls.

_We._ There sure hadn't been much of that lately. Sam let slip a soupçon of hope that perhaps Dean was finally getting his head in the game. Maybe big brother was here to stay.

-0-

"What are we?" Sam asked as they left Juanita's and headed back to the motel.

"Huh?"

"FBI, CIA, what are we?"

"Serial killer, so FBI," Dean answered.

They settled into the Impala and Sam dug a couple of FBI badges out of their hoard. Handing one to Dean, he slid the one with his photo on it into his hoodie pocket.

"We're not going to change clothes?" Sam asked as Dean started the car.

"Nope. I hate those damn suits. They ask, we'll just say the airline lost our luggage. That work for you?"

"Yeah, I guess." At this point, Sam didn't really care. His headache was coming back, and his stomach was unhappily talking to him about the salsa that had been on his salad.

"So?" Dean's hands tapped a beat against the steering wheel.

"So what?"

"So where are we going?" Dean demanded impatiently.

"Sorry." No he wasn't, not really. Taking out his phone he mapped the address. "329 South "J" Street. Turn left here then left on "J"."

Without a word Dean followed Sam's simple directions, pulling up a few minutes later in front of a small, older house with a yard in desperate need of a good lawnmower. He slowed to a stop and just sat there.

"Are you planning on getting out?" Sam asked, confused.

"Are you planning on telling me who lives here?" Dean parroted back.

"Right. Sorry." Again… Couldn't do anything right, could he? "David and Charles Weir; they're cousins, David is the one who was killed. The first victim."

"Okay." Dean opened his door and led the way up the walk to the front door. "Ready?"

Since when did either of them ask that? They were both so far off their game they weren't even in the stadium. Sam nodded.

The man who opened the door could have almost been the son of the cro-magnon dude back at the motel, although this one was slightly cleaner. His beer belly looked like it was ready to give birth to several six packs any second now.

"Yeah?" Add highly-educated to the man's list of attributes. Not. With some difficulty, Sam managed to keep his face expressionless.

Dean held up his badge. "I'm Agent Taylor this is Agent Le Bon, FBI. We're looking into the deaths that have occurred up on Harris Grade."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean snorted. "Your cousin was the first victim."

"Yeah."

Oh, this one was a real winner. Sam simply couldn't help himself and he sighed. "Can we come in?"

Charles stepped back, allowing them to enter.

The inside was rather pleasant, and definitely not what Sam had been expecting. It was one of the old turn of the century craftsman style homes and had been cared for inside much better than the outside yard. Perhaps Charles' attitude and appearance was simple grief rather than lack of personal attention.

Or not.

Charles plopped down in an easy chair, waved a hand at the couch, and picked up a half-finished bottle of beer. He gestured with it in their direction, his eyebrow lifted.

"No, thanks," Sam said before Dean could take him up on the offer. He was careful not to look at his older brother.

"So what can you tell us about your cousin's death?" Dean asked. Sam could tell from the tone of voice that Dean was not pleased about passing on the beer.

"Huh? He was killed."

"Is there anyone who would want your cousin dead?" Sam didn't hold out much hope they were going to get anything out of this idiot.

"Nobody. Don't know why he'd stop at that spot and just get out of his car."

"Did he always take Harris Grade?"

"Yeah. It's faster than going around by Vandenberg. I don't like it though," he added almost as an after-thought.

"Why not?"

"I get car-sick." Charles grimaced and took another slug of beer as if to wash out any possible taste of potential vomit.

"Right." Sam glanced over at Dean who gave a slight shrug. Apparently he had nothing to contribute.

Sam thought over what Charles had said so far. The way the idiot had said 'that spot', maybe…

"What is it about that particular area of Harris Grade that bothers you?"

"Huh? Besides David dying there?"

"Yeah," Dean said sarcastically, "besides that."

"Nothing. It's just a spot." Charles guzzled the last of his beer and quickly reached for another. "Sure you don't want one?"

"Yes. Just a spot?" Sam tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice but knew he'd been unsuccessful when Charles glared at him. "Okay, fine, thanks. You've been a big help, and we're very sorry for your loss."

"He's hiding something," Sam said as they walked back to the car.

"No kidding. I thought he was going to puke right in front of us." Dean slid behind the wheel and turned the key. "Wonder what it is about 'that spot' that upset him so much."

"More research?" Sam shut the door and settled back into his seat. "Or on to our next interviewee? Maybe he'll have the same feeling about that spot."

"That would be too easy; we don't have that kind of luck. Where to now?"

"Steven and Maggie Day." Sam fiddled with the GPS on his phone. Best invention ever, in his opinion. "Turn left at the first street, then right on Pine Ave. It's 1459."

"Which one died?"

"Maggie. She's the most recent victim," Sam answered. He wasn't going to tell Dean she'd had a six-month-old daughter; six-month-old babies were a sore spot for both of them.

The Day's house was very similar in style to the one owned by the Weir cousins – with the exception being the nicely groomed front yard. These owners seemed to be into the latest in curb appeal. No overgrown grass for them. Even the front door was freshly painted. Sam raised his hand and knocked.

The man who invited them inside was holding a baby dressed in pink with a little bow affixed to her almost hairless head. He was understandably distraught and at first Sam didn't think he was going to be much help. After the introductions and explanations, Steven led them into the living room, talking as they walked.

"We grew up here–Maggie and me. Started in kindergarten together, graduated from Cabrillo, went to college, came back and got married. Thought it would be a great place to raise our kids." He sat down in a rocking chair and gave the baby a little jiggle even though she wasn't fussing.

"It seems like a nice town," Sam said politely as he sat next to Dean on the couch. He gave a fleeting notion to what it would have been like to grow up in a one town and actually have friends and neighbors. Probably just more people to watch him mess up his life. He quickly he shoved the thought out of his head.

"It is. What's funny is we never use Harris Grade when it's foggy. It's stupid, but there's an old story about this woman named Agnes who was killed and she comes back on foggy nights looking for her missing baby. Just a story, but it bothered Maggie – especially after Juliet was born. I don't know why she decided to come back that way this time, but… I don't know. Don't know." He was almost in tears.

"Do you know how long ago this Agnes died?" Dean asked.

Steven looked at him with a strange expression. "It's a story, it's not real, a story to scare kids. When our parents were little, it was Mary looking for her lost dog on the hill. Just a story. It wasn't a ghost that killed my wife."

"Of course it wasn't," Sam said soothingly. "Thank you for your help. We'll show ourselves out and let you know how the investigation goes."

He and Dean left the grieving man with his daughter and quietly let themselves out.

"We're going to let him know how the investigation goes? What the hell, Sam?" Dean pushed past his brother and climbed into the Impala.

"Of course not." Sam curled up on his side of the car and frowned over at Dean. So much for the big-brother persona sticking around.

"Then why did you say we would?"

"What's wrong with leaving him with a little comfort? Letting him know someone's working on his wife's death?"

"And when we don't show up and the cops never come up with a cause of death?" Dean pulled out into the street. "How comforted will he be then?"

"Shut up, Dean. Just shut up." Of course Sam was wrong to tell the dead woman's husband what he did. Always wrong. It was second nature now.

-0-

After a brief drive-thru at the local Jack-in-the-Box, the brothers hunkered down back at the motel for the night.

"You were right," Sam said in-between bites of his greasy Jumbo Jack.

"Of course I was." Dean finished chewing, swallowed, burped, and asked: "about what?"

"It is supernatural. We just have to find the ghost, and figure out why she suddenly started killing people."

"More research, Sammy. Just what you're good at it." Dean balled up his burger wrapper and successfully lobbed it at his unsuspecting brother's head. "Score!"

Sam merely rolled his eyes and started tapping away at the computer. Ladies named Agnes whose baby died on Harris Grade in Lompoc. Much to his surprise, he got a lone hit from a gardener's website. In between the rhapsodizing about the various flora and fauna along Harris Grade Sam found a nugget of information.

"Dean, come check this out."

"I'm comfortable," came the answer from where Dean was sprawled in the lopsided recliner. "Read it to me."

"Lazy ass. It's talking about the spot where a local woman is said to have died in the 1920's. The legend goes that she had a fight with her husband in Santa Maria and left her home in the middle of a gully-washing rainstorm. It says she was driving, and crying, with her infant child screaming in her Model T; she missed the turn near the top of the hill and her car went over the abyss. Her vehicle was found the next morning, hundreds of feet below the road; her body was said to have been taken out by the emergency crews, but they never found her baby. It was presumed to have been dragged off by coyotes."

"There she is, we just have to find her," Dean said when Sam had finished.

"Yeah, I see a trip to the library in our immediate future."

"I'm not sleeping on the floor," Dean said out of the blue.

"I don't want to sleep in here at all," Sam countered. "Did you bring in our sleeping bags by any chance?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I was thinking ahead, Sammy, something you should consider." Dean pulled himself out of the chair and grabbed both bags out of the closet, tossing one over to his brother. "You kick me or drool on me and you'll finish the night on the floor."

"You fart in my face and you'll be the one sleeping on the floor," Sam shot back as he spread out his sleeping bag on the bed. Toeing his shoes off and loosening his jeans, he crawled inside.

He wouldn't dare mention it to Dean, but it was comforting having his big brother curled up beside him. That was just about the only thing that wasn't wrong in his life right now.


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

The sky was just beginning to lighten when Dean opened his eyes the next morning. He lay there quietly listening to Sam's puffs of breath next to him. Sam. His little brother. His biggest failure. The person he loved most in the world, although he'd deny it a thousand times and cut out his own tongue before he'd admit it out loud to anybody. Saint Peter and that Rooster had nothing on Dean Winchester when it came to denial.

He had to admit to being rather surprised Sam hadn't wanted to dissect everything Bobby'd told them about their dad. His little brother was usually Mr. Diarrhea of the Mouth when it came to discussing subjects Dean had no desire to talk about. And their dad rescuing them, their dad possibly being a demon, anything about their dad at this particular point in time was a no-go area as far as he was concerned.

Hell, he'd failed their dad and he'd failed to protect Sam. He'd promised Sam he'd keep him safe from the demons and he hadn't done it. Alastair got them both. He'd failed, period. Dean Winchester, the mighty failure. That was him, all right.

"You're thinking too hard," came from inside the sleeping bag next to him.

"I'm not."

"Thinking?" Sam's tousled head rose up from under Dean's right armpit. His nose wrinkled. "You stink, dude."

"You're no bed of roses yourself, Fart Queen." It was not an attempt worthy of the Master if Comebacks and Dean's frown appeared just seconds before Sam's.

"Dean―"

"Don't. Even. Start." Dean shoved at his brother. The big lump didn't move an inch.

"I was going to suggest breakfast," Sam said mildly as he rolled over and got off the bed. "This place still smells like bleach."

"Sure you were," Dean grumbled. "Go make us some coffee. Geisha girl."

"Only if you take a shower, stink monster."

"Stink monster?"

Their eyes met at the same moment and Dean watched Sam's lips start shaking. Okay, they were both off their game, but…

"STINK MONSTER?" Dean was laughing before he realised it, Sam joining in.

"Fart Queen?" came the quick rejoinder.

"Eeee-yup." Dean was still chortling as he disappeared into the bathroom. "Make that coffee!"

He'd stopped laughing by the time he stepped under the shower. He was just so tired. While the physical scars were beginning to fade a little, the emotional ones were as raw as ever and he didn't think they would ever go away. Sam was doing a pretty good job of pretending he was on his game, but Dean knew him too well to believe it; his little brother had tells that gave away his true emotions, tells Dean had been studying for 23 years and knew intimately. They were both in crappy shape and it would probably take a miracle for them to finish this damn hunt successfully.

No, he wasn't going to go there. Briefly he wondered how long he'd been standing like a zombie under the shower as he suddenly realised he hadn't even begun to wash his, according to Sam, stinky body. Sluggishly he picked up a washcloth and rubbed soap over it. Clean the face, the neck, the chest. Scrub those stinky pits. Don't look at the scars on the stomach or legs or arms and don't forget to clean your feet.

The water was cooling off. Great, now he'd have to listen to Sam bitch about the lack of hot water. Par for the course: Dean, the hot water failure.

He turned off the shower, dried himself off and wrapped the cheap towel around his waist. All simple actions he could do without thought. Sniffing, he smelled the coffee. Good boy, Sammy.

The door was barely open when Sam spoke up. "You used all the hot water, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Jerk."

Half a beat, then, "Bitch." It almost hadn't come out, but it wasn't Sam's fault his big brother was a failure. Shouldn't take it out on him. Normal. They needed normal.

"Made your coffee," Sam shot over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

"Thanks," Dean said, too softly for Sam to possibly hear even if he'd still been in the same room. He dressed quickly; heat wasn't something this room possessed.

Pouring himself a cup of java, Dean sat down at the table. Sam was right the place did still smell like bleach. Well, better that than what they'd opened the door to. His mind skimmed over what they needed to do today; he decided it was important to keep his mind on the job, not let it wander off to … other things.

He was still nursing the same cup of coffee when Sam came waltzing out of the bathroom.

"My goosebumps have goosebumps and you better not have drunk all the coffee, too," Sam said.

"And you could have got bigger towels."

"Complain, complain, com… gladiator Sam!" Dean laughed as finally looked at his brother. The towel was a bit short for his 6'4" stature, and while it circled his skinny non-hips just fine, barely covered his genitals. Another inch or so and Dean would be subjected to more of his brother than he wanted to see. "Don't you flash me, SAM!"

He didn't duck fast enough to miss the towel tossed at him, as Sam twirled around and stuck his bare butt in the air. "Fart Queen!" he shouted and proceeded to demonstrate his prowess. Dean couldn't get out of the way fast enough.

Sam smirked as he slipped his boxers on. "Doesn't smell like bleach," he said with satisfaction.

"Ass," Dean grumbled before he thought.

"Yes," Sam said happily, "that would be what I used."

-0-

After a meal of donuts and coffee―the breakfast of champions living in dive hotels―Sam and Dean headed out to the local library. Research was a necessary evil as far as Dean was concerned, and something he shunned as much as possible. In this case avoidance was going to be impossible; one room key, one car, and a little brother who was apparently determined to make Dean do as much work as possible.

"We should probably see about interviewing more of the victims' family members today." Dean put as much innocence and nonchalance into his voice as possible. Nothing to see here, no ulterior motive to avoid reading through a gazillion miles of micro-fiche, nope.

"Nice try, Dean."

"We'll get more done if we split up," he attempted again.

"Together. We're doing this together."

"You just don't want to wade through all those dusty newspapers by yourself," Dean pouted. "You're perfectly capable of doing it by yourself."

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

After parking, they made their way into the small building that proudly called itself―in overly large lettering―the Lompoc Public Library. He stayed by the sliding glass door as Sam walked over to the information desk. A few minutes of quiet whispering and finger-pointing and Sam was turning back to his brother.

"Most of the old papers we want are still on micro-fiche," Sam said as he got closer. "At least it's stored out here in the research section so we don't have to check film in and out each time. Card catalog is here, too."

"Card catalog? As in little squares of paper? Hasn't anyone told them it's the 21stcentury?"

"Shhhhh."

They made their way to the back of the library. After glancing around Sam trundled over to a small filing cabinet and pulled open one of the tiny drawers.

"Okay. Steven said he and Maggie grew up with the legend, and his mom with a variation of it," he began. "I think we should start with 1980 and work our way back."

"A woman and a baby killed in a car accident on a lonely mountain road sometime between 1980 and the invention of the au-to-mo-bile," Dean said sarcastically. "Simple."

"You never know, we might get lucky."

Dean looked at him and raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Sam quickly looked down at the card in his hand then up to the film boxes stacked on the shelves next to them looking for the 1980's. He spun around hands full of film and his face took on a suitably abashed expression. "Yeah, right, what was I thinking? Luck and Winchester don't go together. Here." He held out a palm full of micro-fiche.

"Thanks. Not," was all Dean said as he took his share. He didn't want to be here at all. The 80's had not been good to the Winchester family, not by a long shot. The 80's started his life as a failure; in fact the only thing he'd actually succeeded at was getting Sammy out of their burning house. After that? Just one fiasco after another.

Did Sam still trust him? How could he? Dean knew he had to be a disappointment to his little brother, that he'd let Sam down so many times it was impossible for Sam to trust him to watch his back. To protect him. To do his job and take care of Sammy. And dad…

He immediately shut down that train of thought and settled at the machine next to Sam. At least there weren't a million kids roaming around.

"It's the middle of a school day," Sam said seemingly out of the blue.

"What?"

"There aren't any kids here because it's the middle of a school day," Sam reiterated, not very patiently.

"Oh, did I say that out loud?" Dean turned his attention back to the machine in front of him and continued reading.

"Obviously," Sam said dryly.

For a while the only sounds to be heard were the swishing of the film through the micro-fiche machine and the hushed whispers of the few Library patrons. Dean was getting very bored; scratch that, he'd been bored since he woke up this morning, now he was practically somnambulant and this tiny print was making it worse. Plus he'd failed to find anything of interest; aside from the recent deaths it seemed nothing much ever happened in this one-horse town.

"Will you stop?" Sam hissed.

Dean looked around guardedly. "Who me? Stop what?"

"Squirming. You're like a little kid who has to pee and can't hold it."

"There's nothing in here, Sammy, this is useless. We're not going to find anything." Dean got up and stalked around their table. Why go through all this only to fail? They weren't going to catch any ghost, if there even was a ghost…"

"There is a ghost, Dean, and we'll stop this," Sam said softly.

Oops. Dean really needed to watch is mouth; that was the second time something popped out without his permission.

"I don't… yeah, right." Dean flopped back into his chair, gave a heavy sigh and started reading. A few minutes later he sighed again, adding a little squirm. Wait for it….

"Why don't you go get us some lunch," Sam said, his voice and face plainly showing his exasperation.

Score!

"Excellent idea. Glad I thought of it." Dean jumped out of the chair. "What do you want?"

"Whatever."

"Fine. Later, dude. Don't find anything useful without me." Dean shot through the library like a bullet from a gun, he so wanted out of the building. He needed to be moving, he was an action man not a geek researcher.

-0-

After a lunch of Subway sandwiches, chips and sodas outside in the library's garden it was back to the grind. Dean burped quietly; at least he wasn't hungry any more. His full stomach was good for at least an hour more of this bore-me-to-death research.

Or not even that long. Dean had barely sat down and warmed up the computer-thing when Sam spoke.

"Got it."

"About time." Dean turned off his machine and leaned over to look at Sam's terminal.

"Don't leave the film in there, Jesus," Sam glowered.

Dean scowled back but did as he was told. His little brother had way too many bitch-faces for one person. "So what did you find?" He set the micro-fiche down on the table with exaggerated care, just catching Sam's eye-roll.

"Her name really was Agnes. No last name, no ID―they only have the first name because it was embroidered on her sweater. Died in a car accident on Harris Grade, June 13, 1957. There's no mention of a baby other than a notation of baby items being found in the car." Sam shrugged. "Did they have seat belts back then? There was no law about infant seats, so if she did have a baby with her, it's possible it was thrown from the car. Would explain her looking for it all these years."

"But why suddenly start killing people? In all that time nobody's died because of her until now." Dean beamed. "I think we need to pay another visit to our good friend Charlie Weir, convince him to give us a little more information this time around."

Sam clicked "copy" then unwound the film from his machine. "You can't punch him, Dean."

"Just a little tap?"

"No." Sam stood, looking around the room.

Dean pointed to their left. "Printer's over there. Spoilsport." He didn't have to see Sam's face to know another rolling of the eyes was in progress. "Bitch."

"I heard that," Sam said. "Jerk. And she was cremated. Something is keeping her here."

"Great," Dean muttered as he followed his long-legged brother out of the library.

-0-

One good thing about this town, Dean thought, was its size. They didn't spend a ton of time driving around looking for where they had to go. Of course, the GPS in Sam's fancy phone certainly helped with that.

The grass in front of the Weir house had been mowed between their last visit and now. "Guess someone got off their fat ass and did some pruning," Dean commented. The weeds were noticeably absent around the flowers, too.

"Either that or a neighbor got tired of looking at the jungle and cleaned up for him." Sam beat Dean to the doorbell and pushed the button.

Dean glanced around as they waited. And waited. He was ready to punch the bell himself when the door finally opened before them.

"You again." Charles hadn't grown any more articulate in the last 24 or so hours, not that Dean was surprised.

"Yeah, it's us again. We have some more questions for you," Dean ground out, using his best bad-cop voice.

"We're sorry we have to bother you again." Sam's soft voice slid in behind's Dean's belligerent tone right on schedule.

It gave Dean a moment's pause; they hadn't talked about how they were going to handle Charles this time, and things were starting off smoothly. Maybe they could do this after all.

"You gonna let us in, or are we gonna conduct business out here so all your neighbors can watch the show?" Dean growled.

"I don't think we need to be quite so aggressive with him, Agent Taylor," Sam turned to Charles and smiled. "May we come in? We just have a couple more questions for you, it won't take long."

"Uh, yeah. I guess." Charles stepped back from the doorway. Dean headed directly for the couch he'd sat on last time and made himself comfortable. Sam politely let Charles lead the way, then positioned himself on the cushions beside his brother.

"Since we last spoke, Mr. Weir, we've found out more about that spot along the hill you mentioned." Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees with his hands clasped loosely between his legs. "Had you and your cousin been to 'that spot' prior to his death?"

Sam had barely finished his question before Charles was shaking his head. "No. Never been to that spot. No."

"You sure?" Dean clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes and stared at Charles.

"Um, yes?"

"Are you asking me? Because if you are," Dean spit the words out between his teeth, "then I'm going to answer you with a 'yes-you-have'. See, I think you and your cousin were there before he died, and I think the two of you found something and messed with it when you shouldn't have. What do you think, Charlie?"

Charles' eyes were wide, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly; the man was definitely awake and paying attention now.

"Mr. Weir?" Sam's soft trust-me voice again.

"How did … you know?" The agitated man could barely get the words out.

"We're the FBI, dude," Dean snorted, grin wide.

After that the floodgates opened.

"We found some bones, okay? We were out there dumping an old couch and my cap fell off and slid down with it. When we went to get it, David found a baby's skull. Thought it would make a cool paper-weight--"

"You're not serious." Sam sounded horrified, the gentle, sympathetic tones gone. Dean was just disgusted. Idiots.

"_David_ brought it back. Not me," Charles protested.

"Good thing for you, or you'd probably be dead, too," Dean pointed out angrily. "Where exactly did you morons find the skull? And more importantly, where the hell is it now?"

Charles pointed a shaky finger at the fireplace. There on the mantle sat a tiny, dirty skull. Dean wanted to throw up. People. He simply didn't understand them.

"And you found it….?"

"Right where David was killed. The couch is still there."

"And the fact that David was killed exactly where you found the skull didn't tell you anything?" Dean stomped over to the fireplace and gently picked up the head. He turned back; Charles was looking at the floor. Dean shook his head in revulsion. "Let's go, Sam."

Back at the car Dean opened the trunk. Pulling out a blanket he reverently wrapped the tiny head in it and handed it to Sam.

"Let's go. Put this back where it belongs and burn the lot," Dean said as he started the car up.

"Do you think we actually need to burn them?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Why wouldn't we?" What was up in Sam's big brain now?

"There were no deaths before David took the skull. Makes sense that all we need to do is put it back where it was," Sam pointed out sensibly.

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Besides, we don't know what happens to a soul after we salt and burn the bones. What if we're sending the baby to Hell or―"

"Don't even go there Sam. People are cremated after they die a normal death every day. Are you saying all those souls―assuming there are such things―automatically go to Hell?" Up ahead was bright yellow crime scene tape and Dean carefully pulled off the road onto the dirt verge. He shut off the car and turned to his brother. "Okay? Are we good here, Sam? Because I don't want to be halfway through looking for the rest of the bones only to have mommy show up and toss me while you waffle over whether or not to burn the bones. So? Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean, we're good. I don't… yeah. We're good."

"Then let's finish this."

Sam unwrapped the baby's skull and handed it over to Dean who set it in his jacket pocket. Grabbing the salt and lighter fluid, Sam followed Dean carefully down the side of the hill, passing the Weir's couch in the process.

"Yeah, it was past time for that thing to be dumped," Dean laughed. "It's got stuff on it that I don't even want to know what it was."

"Man, the bones could be anywhere around here." Sam stood by the couch, forehead wrinkled and a forlorn expression on his face.

"Well, the cap fell―off his stupid head I'd imagine, and on to the couch―so the skull would've been somewhere between the top of the hill and the couch. Or it could be farther down," Dean added, frustrated.

"Yeah, thanks for that, Sherlock." Sam bent over and began looking closely at the ground covering.

After watching his brother for a few minutes Dean followed suit. He was feeling pretty hopeless at the moment; the chance of actually finding the tiny bones of an infant were slim to none in his opinion. And with his track record as Mr. Failure Extraordinaire, he wasn't expecting any miracles to pop up and say "here I am, give me back my head and let's salt and burn!"

"Dean."

For a split second Dean was afraid he'd once again verbalized his thoughts, but at the sad look on Sam's face he realised it wasn't that. He walked over to where Sam knelt on the ground and sank down beside him. Sam's very large was hand was holding a very small bone.

"Femur?"

"Yeah," Sam said in low voice. He carefully wiped the dirt away from the bone and set it aside before running his fingers though the dirt in search of more bones.

It didn't take long before they found the rest of the baby's remains. Dean sat back on his haunches with a sigh. This hunt really sucked big time. He wondered if Bobby would have sent them here if he'd real―

"WOAH!" Suddenly Dean was looking down on the top of Sam's head, his legs dangling in mid-air.

"Dean?" Sam jumped up and looked around wildly. "Where is she?"

"I don't―behind you, on your left. Ooooof." An invisible hand punched him hard in the stomach and he gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Burn the … bones … Sammy!"

"Skull!"

"Catch!" Dean grabbed the skull from his pocket and tossed it to Sam who caught it carefully. "Now burn the bones!"

"What if… why can't we just show her …and re-bury them?" Sam appeared to be quickly losing all rational thought.

"What if someone digs them up again?" Dean gasped as he was twirled around in a circle.

"Agnes! Agnes, we have your baby," Sam yelled. He waved the skull around, and her attention immediately switched from Dean.

Dean dropped back to the ground with a thud, a grunt and a promise to severely hurt his brother after this was all over.

Sam knelt, gently laid the skull down with the rest of the remains and looked over at the flickering figure. "We found your baby for you."

With a jerk, Agnes got up close and personal with Sam, looking between him and her baby. Dean tensed, ready for whatever her next trick would be.

She smiled and reached out a hand towards the ground and her baby.

"We need to burn the bones, Sammy," Dean said softly.

"But―"

"She was cremated. It would be the same thing."

From his position on the ground, Sam stared up at Dean with a stricken expression. "What if--"

"No, Sam, no what ifs." Dean joined him in the dirt and began pouring out the salt. He handed Sam the accelerant. "Trust me."

Dean sat there quietly, waiting, as Sam's jaw clenched and un-clenched a few times before he finally upended the container. A snick of the match and it wasn't long before little baby Doe was ashes and dust.

"Sammy."

"What?"

"Look," Dean whispered.

Sam glanced up. Agnes was standing in front of them, smiling and holding a tiny blanket-wrapped bundle. She stayed there for another moment before gradually fading from view.

"You were right," Sam said. "Salt and burn worked. I was just afraid―"

"I know," Dean said quickly. "I know."

After carefully burying the burn evidence, they gathered everything up and trudged back up the hill to the car.

"Can you stand one more night here?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I'm beat. But can we not eat dinner at Juanita's?"

"That rabbit food still arguing with you?" Dean grinned.

"No, but … there's an Alphie's Fish and Chips―"

"No."

"Carrow's?"

"Burger King."

"I have no say in this, do I?" Sam grumbled.

"Sure you do. You don't want to go to Juanita's. We're not going there. That's your say," Dean smirked as they turned into the parking lot at MacDonald's.

"This isn't Burger King," Sam commented.

It was stated rather mildly, too, in Dean's opinion, so apparently Sam wasn't too against eating a Big Mac or three. Or, wait. McDonald's had salads. Figured. What a sacrilege.

-0-

Cuddled up in their respective sleeping bags on top of the lone bed is when Sam picked to bring up the subject of their dad. Dean knew it had to happen, he'd just hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

"We going to head back to Bobby's?" Sam asked.

"Dunno. We could drive around, go see the Grand Canyon."

"Want me to start looking for a new hunt?"

"No." They still weren't ready.

"We can do this, Dean."

"Shut-up Sam"

"We can."

Silence.

And then Sam went there.

"That wasn't a demon that rescued us from Alastair," Sam argued. "It was dad."

"Demons lie. They have their own agendas." Dean wanted to believe it had been their dad coming out from behind the demon skin to save them, he really did. He didn't think he could stand the ensuing disappointment if it wasn't true, though.

"He managed to beat Azazel in the cabin," Sam pointed out softly. "Remember?"

It was ironic that Sam was the one pushing the Dad-Is-Good agenda this time around. That was usually his job. "Yeah, Sam, I remember," Dean said, his voice getting louder. "Kind of hard not to since that's how dad ended up in Hell in the first place!"

Sam poked his head out of the sleeping bag and looked straight into Dean's eyes. "Which was not your fault," he said firmly. "It's not your fault I died. I'm alive―however it happened, why it happened, I don't care. We're together, we can do this together. We solved this hunt; Agnes and her baby are together. Nobody else is going to die because of her."

Dean glanced away from Sam's pleading eyes. Together they were a family, he and Sam. They did solve this case; it hadn't been as easy as it would have been a year ago, but they weren't the same people now, either. Everything they'd been through this past year, this past month, had … had it made them stronger? He didn't know for sure, but if Sam could find good in their black-eyed father, then perhaps he could, too.

"Maybe dad's in there fighting, right?" Dean looked back into Sam's eyes. "Fighting against what Hell tried to turn him into, fighting to get back to us?" He didn't say, we could be a family again, but the thought was out there, hanging in the air between them.

They were Winchesters, all three of them. Saving people, hunting things, this was the family business and if one of those things that needed saving was their dad, then so be it. He and Sam would do it together.


End file.
